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HUSTLER JOE 

AND OTHER STORIES 


ELEANOR H. PORTER 









HUSTLER JOE 

AND OTHER STORIES 

BY __ , ^ - 

Yw ELEANOR H. PORTER 

Author of "Money, Love and Kate” "Pollyanna” "Pollyanna 
Grows Up” "Miss Billy” "Cross Currents” etc. 


NEW 


YORK 


GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 




COPYRIGHT, 1924, 

BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY 






HUSTLER JOE 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED f^TATES OF AMERICA 


c f° - R Vi 

©C1A801691 

1 


> 


CONTENTS 


I 

PAGE 

THE ATONEMENT OF HUSTLER JOE . . 9 

II 

TANGLED.109 

III 

A VACATION EXCHANGE.187 

IV 

THE TWINS’ JOURNEY.259 







I: THE ATONEMENT OF 
HUSTLER JOE 


\ 


I: THE ATONEMENT OF 
HUSTLER JOE 


PROLOGUE 

A TOY horse or a raspberry-tart is not often 
responsible for the loss of a life, but a suc¬ 
cession of toy horses, raspberry-tarts, and 
whatever else the heart of a small boy craved, given 
in reckless abandonment of superfluity, was cer¬ 
tainly responsible for the wilfulness in the character 
of Paul Weston; and the wilfulness, in turn, was 
responsible for the quarrel. 

At twenty he was a restless, impulsive, good- 
natured, broad-chested, strong-limbed young fellow, 
the adored of his mother and the pride of his father. 
And yet it was over the prostrate form of this same 
father that he now stood—the crack of the revolver 
still ringing in his ears, the weapon still clutched 
in his hand. 

Was the man dead? But a minute before he had 
been speaking; now there was a fast-growing pool 
of something dark and horrible on the floor at his 
side. 

Paul Weston brushed the back of his left hand 
across his eyes and looked down at the still smoking 
revolver. Had his miserable temper brought him to 
this? His features worked convulsively and his eyes 
widened in horror. Throwing the revolver from him 
to the farthermost corner of the room, he turned and 
fled. 


9 


10 


Hustler Joe 

Out the door, through the gate, and down the 
long street of the little New England village he ran. 
It was dusk, but he stumbled as though it were the 
darkness of midnight. 

The neighbors looked and wondered at the fleeing 
figure, but only their eyes spoke disapproval. If 
Paul Weston chose to use the main street of the 
village as a race-course, it was not for them to inter¬ 
fere—they knew him too well. The town fool alone 
ventured to accost him. 

“Hi, there—go it! What’s after ye?” he shouted; 
but the jeering words and the vacant smile died on 
his lips at sight of the face Paul turned upon him. 

Down the street, across the open field, and over 
the fence at a bound—surely the friendly shelter of 
the woods receded as he ran! But his pace did not 
slacken even in the dense shadows of the forest. 
On and on, stumbling, falling, tearing his flesh, and 
his clothing on the thorns and brambles until, ex¬ 
hausted, he dropped on a grassy mound, miles away 
from that dread thing he had left behind him. 

The wind sighed and whispered over his head. 
Weston had always loved the sound, but tonight it 
was only an accusing moan in his ears. Even the 
stars that peeped through the leaves above were 
like menacing eyes seeking out his hiding-place. 

An owl hooted; Weston raised his head and held 
his breath. Then through the forest came the bay¬ 
ing of a distant hound. The man was on his feet 
in an instant. Something tightened in his throat 
and his heart-beats came in slow, suffocating throbs. 
He knew that sound! They sought for—murderers 
with creatures like that! With a bound he was 
away on his wild race again. Hours later, the gray 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 11 

dawn and his nearness to a small village warned 
him to move more cautiously. 

All that day he tramped, without rest, without 
food, reaching at night the seaport town that had 
been his goal. Skulking through the back streets 
he came to a cheap eating-house down by the 
wharves. 

The odor of greasily fried meats and bad coffee 
floated out the open door, causing Weston to sniff 
hungrily. In a moment he had thrown caution to 
the winds, entered the restaurant and slunk into the 
nearest seat. 

By his side lay a discarded newspaper. He reached 
for it with a shaking hand, then snatched his fingers 
back as though the printed sheet had scorched them. 
No, oh, no—he dared not look at it! His mind’s 
eye pictured the headlines, black with horror: 
murder! parricide! the fiend still at large! 

He pushed back his chair and rushed from the 
room. An hour later he had shipped as a sailor 
on a vessel bound for San Francisco around Cape 
Horn. 


CHAPTER I 


T HE cracker-barrels and packing boxes that 
usually served for seats in Pedler Jim’s store 
were, strange to say, unoccupied. Bill Somers, sole 
representative of “the boys,” sat cross-legged on the 
end of the counter, meditatively eyeing a dozen flies 
that were buzzing happily around a drop of molasses 
nearby. Pedler Jim himself occupied his customary 
stool behind the counter. 

It was ten years now since the little hunchback 
pedler first appeared in Skinner Valley. He came 
from no one knew where, driving a battered and 
worn horse attached to a yet more battered and worn 
pedler’s cart. The horse had promptly taken ad¬ 
vantage of the stop in the village, and by dying had 
made sure of never leaving the place for the weari¬ 
some trail again. The miners say that the night the 
old horse died, its master patted and stroked the 
poor dead head until it was cold and stiff, and that 
morning found him fondling the useless reins with 
his shriveled, misshapen fingers. 

The next day he bartered for a tiny piece of land 
fronting the main street. When he had wheeled his 
old cart into proper position upon it, he busied him¬ 
self some time with a bit of board and a paint pot, 
finally producing a rough sign bearing the single 
word “Store.” This creation he nailed with much 
satisfaction upon the front of the dashboard, then 
sat down on one of the thills to wait for a customer. 
Perhaps it was the oddity of the thing; or perhaps 
12 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 13 

there was something in the deformed little body 
that appealed to the strong-limbed, straight-backed 
miners; or perhaps it was the wonderful knowledge 
of healing herbs and soothing lotions that Pedler Jim 
possessed—perhaps it was a little of all three. At all 
events, the new store prospered amazingly so that 
in a year its owner bought more land, trundled the 
old cart to the rear, and erected a small cabin on his 
lot. This, in turn, gave place to a good-sized frame 
building bearing the imposing gilt-lettered sign: 

JAMES A. POWERS, 

Skinner Valley Emporium. 

The Hunchback rolled this high-sounding title 
under his tongue with keen relish, but it was still 
“the store” to the boys, and its owner was only 
“Pedler Jim.” 

Bill Somers shifted his position on the end of the 
counter and poked a teasing finger at the agitated 
mass of wings and legs around the molasses drop. 
The storekeeper grinned appreciatively and broke 
the silence: 

“Say, who’s yer new man?” 

“Blest if I know.” 

“Well, he’s got a name, hain’t he?” 

“Mebbe he has—then again, mebbe he hadn’t.” 

“But don’t ye call him nuthin’?” 

“Oh, we call him 'Hustler Joe’; but that ain’t no 
name to hitch a grocery bill on to—eh, Jim?” 

The little hunchback slid from his stool and 
brought his fist down hard on the counter. 

“That’s jest the point! He don’t git much, but 
what he does git he pays fur—spot cash. An’ that’s 


Hustler Joe 


14 

more’n I can say of some of the rest of ye,” he added, 
with a reproachful look. 

Bill laughed and stretched his long legs. 

“I s’pose, now, that’s a dig at me, Jim.” 

“I didn’t call no names.” 

“I know yer lips didn’t, but yer eyes did. Say, how 
much do I owe, anyhow?” 

With manifest alacrity Jim darted over to the 
pine box that served for a desk. 

“There ain’t no hurry, Jim,” drawled Somers, with 
a slow smile. “I wouldn’t put ye out fur nothin’!” 

The storekeeper did not hear. He was rapidly 
turning the greasy, well-thumbed pages of the 
account book before him. 

“It’s jest twenty dollars and fourteen cents, now, 
Bill,” he said, his brown forefinger pausing after a 
run down one of the pages. “Ye hain’t paid nothin’ 
since Christmas, ye know,” he added significantly. 

“Well,” sighed Bill, with another slow smile, 
“mebbe ’twouldn’t do no harm if I ponied up a bit!” 
And he plunged both hands into his trousers’ 
pockets. 

Pedler Jim smiled and edged nearer, while Bill 
drew out a handful of change and laboriously picked 
out a dime and four pennies. 

“There!” he said, slapping the fourteen cents on 
the counter, “now it’s even dollars!” 

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” cried Pedler Jim, turning 
his back and walking over to the window. 

Somers looked after the retreating figure, and a 
broad smile lighted up his round red face. Slipping 
his hand inside his coat he pulled out a roll of green¬ 
backs. In another minute the fourteen cents lay 
neatly piled on top of two ten-dollar bills. The man 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 15 

hastily slipped into his old position and coughed 
meaningly. 

“Ye don’t seem pleased/’ he began. 

The hunchback did not stir. 

“Mebbe ye don’t want my money/’ hazarded the 
miner. 

No answer. 

“Oh, well, I can take it back,” and Somers shuffled 
noisily oft his seat. 

Pedler Jim wheeled about and came down the 
store with his small black eyes blazing. 

“Jiminy Christmas, man! If ye ain’t enough ter 
try out a saint! I’m blest if I can git mad at ye, 
though, fur all yer pesterin’ ways. Now what in 

thunder-” The storekeeper’s jaw dropped, and 

his mouth fell open idiotically as his eyes rested on 
the greenbacks. “Well, I’ll be jiggered!” he mur¬ 
mured again, and clutched the money in his claw¬ 
like fingers. 

At that moment the outer door opened to admit 
a tall, broad-shouldered miner wearing a slouch hat 
well over his eyes. In a trice Pedler Jim was the 
obsequious merchant behind the counter. 

The newcomer gave his order in a low voice and 
stood motionless while the hunchback busied himself 
in filling it. 

“Anything else?” suggested Jim wistfully, as he 
pushed a small package toward him. 

“Oh, I guess that’ll do for this time,” returned the 
man, picking up his purchase and motioning toward 
a dollar bill on the counter. 

Pedler Jim looked up quickly and something like 
tenderness came into his eyes. 

“I—guess you’re from Yankee-land, stranger; 
shake, won’t ye?” he said, thrusting his hand across 


i6 


Hustler Joe 


the counter. “Gorry! but it's prime good ter see 
a good old New Englander among all dagoes and 
Dutchmen and the Lord only knows what else here. 
Bill an’ me was gittin’ lonesome—I’m glad ye 
come!” 

At Jim’s first words the stranger had stepped back, 
but the outstretched hand had brought him to the 
counter again, and he gave the brown fingers a grip 
that made the little hunchback wince with pain. 
But Pedler Jim’s welcome was scarcely spoken 
before the man had turned and disappeared through 
the door. 

“Well, I snum! I should think he was ‘Hustler 
Joe’!” murmured Jim. “If he didn’t even hustle 
off and leave his change,” he added, looking help¬ 
lessly at the dollar bill on the counter. 

Somer’s laughed. 

“Hustle!—you’d oughter see him at the mines! 
why, that man works like all possessed. He don’t 
speak nor look at a soul of us ’nless he has to. If 
there’s a chance ter work extry—he gits it; an’ he 
acts abused ’cause he can’t work every night and 
Sundays to boot. Gosh! I can’t understand him,” 
finished Bill, with a yawn and a long stretch. 

“That ain’t ter be wondered at—’tain’t ‘Hustler 
Bill’ that the boys call you,” replied Jim, a sly 
twinkle in his beady little eyes. 

Somers sprang to his feet and towered over the 
little hunchback, his fist raised in pretended wrath 

“Why don’t ye take a feller yer own size?” he 
demanded. 

The hunchback chuckled, dove under the upraised 
arm, and skipped around the room like a boy. An 
encounter, like this was meat and drink to him^and 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 17 

the miners good-naturedly saw that he did not go 
hungry. 

Somers shook his fist at the curious little creature 
perched on the farthermost cracker-barrel and 
slouched out the door. 


CHAPTER II 


S KINNER VALLEY did not know very much 
about Hustler Joe. Six weeks ago he had 
appeared at the Candria coal mine and asked for 
work. Since that time he had occupied an old 
shanty on the hillside—a shanty so helpless in its 
decrepitude that it had long been abandoned to bats 
and owls. Hustler Joe, however, had accomplished 
wonders in the short time he had lived there. 

It was a popular belief in the town that the man 
never slept. Stray wanderers by the shanty had 
reported hearing the sound of the hammer and saw 
at all hours of the night. Outside the shanty loose 
timbers, tin cans, rags, and refuse had given way 
to a spaded, raked and seeded lawn. The cabin 
itself, no longer broken-roofed and windowless, 
straightened its back and held up its head as if 
aware of its new surroundings. 

This much the villagers could see; but inside it 
was still a mystery, for Hustler Joe did not seem to 
be hospitably inclined, and even the children dared 
not venture too near the cabin door. 

It was vaguely known that the man had come over 
the mountains from San Francisco, and with that 
the most were content. Keen eyes and ears like 
Pedler Jim’s were not common in the community, 
and the little hunchback’s welcome to the man be¬ 
cause he came from “Yankee-land” was not dup¬ 
licated. 

Hustler Joe had not been in the habit of frequent- 
18 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 19 

ing the store. His dollar bill was in Pedler Jim’s 
hands a week before the disturbed storekeeper had 
an opportunity of handing back the change. The 
miner had forgotten all about the money and had 
wandered into the store simply because each stick 
and stone and dish and chair at home was in its 
place and there was absolutely nothing for his 
nervous fingers to put in order. 

Joe pushed open the door of the “emporium,” 
then halted in evident indecision. A dozen miners 
were jabbering in half as many languages over by 
the stove, huddled around it as though the month 
were January instead of June, and the stove full of 
needed heat instead of last winter’s ashes. Bill 
Somers lolled on the counter, and Pedler Jim was 
bowing and scraping to a well-dressed stranger 
whose face Joe could not see. 

The miner had half turned to go when Pedler Jim’s 
sharp eyes fell upon him. In another moment the 
hunchback was by his side thrusting some change 
into his fingers. 

“You forgot it, ye know—when ye bought them 
nails,” he said hurriedly; then added, “why don’t 
ye come in and set down?” 

For a second Joe hesitated; then he raised his 
head with a peculiarly defiant up-tilting of his chin, 
and strolled across the room to an unoccupied 
cracker-barrel behind the gesticulating miners. 
Pedler Jim went back to his customer. 

“You won’t find a better smoke within fifty 
miles!” he said pompously, giving the box of cigars 
on the counter a suggestive push. 

The well-dressed man gave a disagreeable laugh. 

“Well, that’s hardly saying very much, is it?” he 
questioned. 


20 


Hustler Joe 


At the stranger’s first words Hustler Joe glanced 
up sharply. His fingers twitched and a gray look 
crept around the corners of his mouth. The room, 
the miners, and Pedler Jim seemed to fade and 
change like the dissolving pictures he used to see 
when a boy. A new England village street drifted 
across his vision with this well-dressed stranger in 
the foreground. He could even see a yellow-lettered 
sign out one of the windows: 

GEORGE L. MARTIN, 

Counselor at Law 

Then it all faded into nothingness again—all save 
the well-dressed stranger in the tall black hat. In 
another minute the jabbering miners, Bill Somers, 
and the obsequious hunchback were in their old 
places, and Pedler Jim was saying: 

“Jest try ’em, an’ see fur yerself.” 

“All right, I’ll take you at your word,” laughed 
the stranger, picking out a cigar and leisurely strik¬ 
ing a match. “It’s a pity you can’t have a few more 
languages going it here,” he added, throwing the 
dead match on the floor and glancing at the group 
around the stove. “I suppose Barrington employs 
mostly foreigners in the mines, eh?” 

The hunchback thrust his brown fingers through 
his hair and made a wry face. 

“Foreigners!” he exclaimed. “I was bom and 
raised in the state of Maine, an’ if it wa’n’t fur Bill 
Somers—he’s from York State—to talk God’s own 
language to me once in a while, I’d ’a’ gone daft 
long ago!” 

“You hav’n’t anyone here at the works from New 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 21 

England, then, I take it, eh?” he asked, with studied 
carelessness. 

A smile crept up from Pedler Jim’s mouth and 
looked out of his twinkling eyes. 

“Well, we have-” he began, then his eyes sud¬ 

denly lost their twinkle as they encountered the 
despairing appeal from beneath Hustler Joe’s slouch 
hat. “We have—been wishin’ there would be some,” 
he finished after the slightest of hesitations. “We’ve 
got everythin’ else under the sun!” 

Bill Somer’s long legs came down from the counter 
abruptly. 

“Why, Jim, there’s Hustler Joe—ain’t he from 
New England?” 

The hunchback’s little beany eyes turned upon 
Somers and looked him through and through with¬ 
out winking. 

“Hustler Joe came over the mountains from San 
Francisco, I have heard,” he said blandly. 

“Oh, so he did—so he did!” murmured Somers, 
and sauntered out the door. 

The man on the cracker-barrel over in the corner 
pulled his hat down over his eyes and sank back 
into the shadows. 

“Well,” said the stranger, tossing a bill and a 
white card on the counter, “put me up a dozen of 
those cigars of yours, and there’s my card—if you 
l^tppen to know of any New Englanders coming to 
Wiese parts, just let me know at that address, will 
you? I’ll make it worth your while.” 

“Very good, sir, very good,” murmured Pedler 
Jim, making a neat package of the cigars. “Thank 
you, sir,” he said suavely, holding out the change 
and glancing down at the card; “thank you, Mr.— 
er—Martin.” And he bowed him out of the store. 



22 


Hustler Joe 


One by one the miners went away; still the figure 
on the cracker-barrel remained motionless. When 
the last jabbering foreigner had passed through the 
door, Hustler Joe rose and walked across the room 
to the pine box where the storekeeper was bending 
over his account-book. 

“See here, little chap,” he began huskily, “that 
was a mighty good turn you did me a bit ago—just 
how good it was, I hope to God you'll never know. 
What you did it for is a mystery to me ; but you did 
it—and that’s enough. I sha’n’t forget it!” 

Something splashed down in front of Pedler Jim, 
then the outer door slammed. When the hunchback 
turned to his accounts again a blot and a blister dis¬ 
figured the page before him. 


CHAPTER in 


J OHN BARRINGTON, the principal owner of 
the Candria mine, did not spend much of his 
time in Skinner Valley. Still, such time as he did 
spend there he intended to be comfortable. Indeed, 
the comfort of John Barrington—and incidentally 
those nearest and dearest to him—was the one thing 
in life worth striving for in the eyes of John Bar¬ 
rington himself, and to this end all his energies 
were bent. 

In pursuance of this physical comfort, John Bar¬ 
rington had built for his occasional use a large, 
richly fitted house just beyond the unpleasant smoke 
and sounds of the town. A tiny lake and a glorious 
view had added so materially to its charms that the 
great man’s wife and daughter had unconsciously 
fallen into the way of passing a week now and then 
through the summer at The Maples, as it came to 
be called in the family—“Skinner Valley” being a 
name to which Miss Ethel’s red lips did not take 
kindly. 

Mr. Barrington’s factotum-in-chief at the mines, 
Mark Hemenway, lived at the house the year round. 
He was a man who took every possible responsibility 
from his chief’s shoulders, and was assiduous in 
respectful attentions and deferential homage when¬ 
ever the ladies graced the place with their presence. 

To Ethel this w T as of little consequence, as she 
paid no more attention to him than she did to the 
obsequious servant behind her chair; but to Mrs. 
23 


Hustler Joe 


24 

Barrington he was the one drawback to complete 
enjoyment of the place. 

Mark Hemenway was a man of limited means, but 
of unlimited ambitions. Every day saw him more 
and more indispensable to his comfort-loving em¬ 
ployer, and every day saw him more and more de¬ 
termined to attain to his latest desire—nothing less 
than the hand of this same employer’s daughter in 
marriage. 

In a vague way Mrs. Barrington was aware of 
this, though Hemenway was, as yet, most circum¬ 
spect in his actions. Mrs. Barrington was greatly 
disturbed, otherwise she would not have ventured 
to remonstrate with her husband that Sunday after¬ 
noon. 

“My dear,” she began timidly, “isn’t there any 
other—couldn’t Mr. Hemenway live somewhere else 
—rather than here?” 

Her husband turned in his chair, and a frown that 
Mrs. Barrington always dreaded appeared between 
his eyebrows. 

“Now, Bess, why can’t you leave things all com¬ 
fortable as they are? I like to have you and Ethel 
here first rate, but I don’t see why you think you 
must upset things when you stay only five minutes, 
so to speak.” 

“I—I don’t mean to upset things, John, but—I 
don’t like him!” she finished in sudden asperity. 

“Like him! My dear, who expected you to? No¬ 
body supposes he is one of your palavering, tea¬ 
drinking members of the upper ten! He isn’t 
polished, of course.” 

“Polished! He’s polished enough, in a way, but 
—I don’t like the metal to begin with,” laughed 
Mrs. Barrington, timidly essaying the joke. 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 25 

Her husband’s frown deepened. 

“But, Bess, don’t you see? I must have him here 
—it’s easier for me, lots easier. Why can’t you let 
things be as they are, and not bother?” he urged in 
the tone of a fretful boy. 

Mrs. Barrington knew the tone, and she knew, too, 
the meaning of the nervous twitching of her hus¬ 
band’s fingers. 

“Well, well, John,” she said, hastily rising, “I 
won’t say anything more,” and the door closed softly 
behind her. 

As she passed through the hall she caught a 
glimpse of Ethel and her friend starting for a walk, 
and the strange unlikeness of the two girls struck 
her anew. Just why Ethel should have chosen 
chosen Dorothy Fenno for a week’s visit to The 
Maples, Mrs. Barrington could not understand. 
Perhaps it would have puzzled Ethel herself to have 
given a satisfactory reason. 

Ethel Barrington had met Dorothy Fenno the 
winter before on a committee connected with a 
fashionable charity, and had contrived to keep in 
touch with the girl ever since, though the paths of 
their daily lives lay wide apart. 

“She is mixed up with ‘settlement work’ and ‘relief 
bands,’ and everything of that sort,” Ethel had told 
her mother; “but she’s wonderfully interesting and 
—I like her!” she had finished almost defiantly. 

The girls leisurely followed a winding path that 
skirted the lake and lost itself in the woods beyond. 
They had walked half an hour when they came to 
the clearing that commanded the finest view in the 
vicinity. 

Ethel dropped wearily to the ground and, with her 


26 Hustler Joe 

chin resting in her hand, watched her friend 
curiously. 

“Well, my dear girl, you-” 

“Don't—don't speak to me!" interrupted Dorothy. 

Ethel Barrington bit her lips; then she laughed 
softly and continued to watch the absorbed face of 
her companion—this time in the desired silence. 
By and bye Dorothy drew a long breath and turned 
to her. 

“Isn't it beautiful!" she murmured reverently. 

Miss Barrington gave a short laugh and sat up. 

“Yes, very beautiful, I suppose; but, do you know, 
I've seen so much I'm spoiled—absolutely spoiled 
for a scene like that? I'd rather look at you—you 
are wonderfully refreshing. I don't know another 
girl that would have snapped me up as you did a 
minute ago." 

“Indeed, I beg your pardon," began Dorothy in 
distress. 

“Don't!" interrupted her friend with a petulant 
gesture; “you’ll be like all the rest if you do." 

“But it was very rude," insisted Dorothy earn¬ 
estly. “A view like this always seems to me like 
a glorious piece of music, and I want everything 
quiet as I would if I were hearing a Beethoven 
symphony, you know. That is why I couldn't bear 
even the tones of your voice—but it was rude of me, 
very." 

Ethel sighed, and fell to picking a daisy to pieces. 

“I used to feel that way, once," she said; “I did, 
really." 

“I haven’t a doubt of it," replied Dorothy, with 
a smile. 

“But I don't any more!"—the daisy was tossed 
aside. 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 27 

“No?” 

“No; I’m like a five-year-old that’s had too much 
candy, I suppose. I’ve seen the Alps and the 
Rockies, the Rhine and the St. Lawrence; and yet, 
the first time I looked at that view I felt just as you 
did. But now-!” 

“You need something outside yourself to give zest 
to your life, my dear,” said Dorothy, her eyes on the 
town below. 

Ethel looked at her narrowly. 

“Now see here, my dear, I love you—and you know 
it, but I just can’t stand any of that old settlement 
talk!” 

“I never said settlement,” laughed Dorothy, her 
eyes still on the straggling cottages. 

“I know, but—well, I just simply can’t! How 
in the world you stand those dismal sounds and 
sights and—and smells,” she added, with a grimaee, 
“I don’t understand.” 

“I suppose the miners live in those cottages,” 
mused Dorothy aloud, as though she had not heard. 

“I suppose so,” acquiesced Ethel indifferently. 
“Others live over the hill in Westmont.” 

“They don’t look as though they’d be very com¬ 
fortable,” continued Dorothy softly. 

“Oh, I don’t know; people like that don’t mind 
such things, I fancy.” 

“Did you ever ask them?” 

Ethel looked up in quick suspicion, but Dorothy’s 
face was placid. 

“Of course not! How silly!” 

“Suppose you do, sometimes,” suggested Dorothy, 
quite as a matter of course. 

“I thought that was what you were coming to!” 
flashed Ethel. “My dear girl, you have no idea 


28 Hustler Joe 

what those miners are,” she continued in a superior 
tone. “In the first place, I don’t think there is one 
of them that understands a word of English, and 
I’d be afraid to trust my life anywhere near them.” 

“But the women and the little children—they 
wouldn’t hurt you. Isn’t there something you could 
do for them, dear?” urged Dorothy. 

A rumble of thunder brought the girls to their 
feet before Ethel could reply, and a big storm-cloud 
coming rapidly out of the west drove the whole 
thing from her mind. 

“Quick—we must run! ” she exclaimed. “We can’t 
reach home, but there’s an old shanty just behind 
those trees over there. No one lives in it, but ’twill 
give us a little shelter, maybe,” and in another 
minute the girls were hurrying down the hill. Big 
drops of rain and a sharp gust of wind quickened 
their steps to a run. 

Had Ethel not been running with her head bent 
to the wind she would have noticed the changed 
appearance of the shanty to which they were hasten¬ 
ing. But as it was, she rushed blindly forward, up the 
steps, and pushed open the door, Dorothy close to 
her side. Once across the threshold she stopped in 
amazement, while Dorothy dropped breathlessly into 
the nearest chair. 


CHAPTER IV 


T HE tiny room was exquisite in its orderly neat¬ 
ness. The furniture was of the plainest, but 
bore an air of individuality. On one side was a case 
of books, and the mantel above the fireplace was 
decorated with quaint curios and beautiful shells. 

A shadow fell across the floor. 

“A nearer view might the better satisfy your 
curiosity, madam,” said a voice from behind Ethel. 

Ethel turned sharply to find herself face to face 
with a man in the rough garb of a miner. The 
man’s eyes looked straight into hers without 
flinching. 

“I said that a nearer view might the better satisfy 
your curiosity in regard to my poor possessions,” he 
repeated. 

“Yours?” she stammered, a look of repulsion com¬ 
ing into her eyes. 

The look and the shrinking gesture were not lost 
on Hustler Joe. His eyes darkened. His broad 
shoulders bent in a mocking bow and his right hand 
made a sweeping flourish. 

“Mine, madam; but consider them yours until 
the storm is over. I’ll not intrude”—and he was 
gone. 

A flare of lightning and a deafening report made 
his exit wonderfully dramatic to Dorothy. The rain 
was falling in torrents, too—a fact which suddenly 
occurred to Ethel. For a moment she hesitated; 
then she sped through the door, overtook and con¬ 
fronted the miner 


29 


30 Hustler Joe 

“Go back instantly!” she commanded. “If—if 
you don’t, I shall start for home in all this rain!” 

The words were scarcely spoken before the man 
had turned and was hurrying her back to the house. 
Once inside there was an uncomfortable silence. 
Dorothy came to the rescue. 

“I’m afraid you thought we were unpardonably 
rude,” she began pleasantly. “You see we were 
caught by the shower and my friend thought no one 
was living here; otherwise, we would not have so 
unceremoniously taken possession.” 

“No, of course not,” murmured Miss Barrington 
constrainedly, going over to the window and looking 
out at the swaying trees. 

Hustler Joe made a dissenting gesture. 

“Say no more: you are quite welcome,” he replied, 
going over to the fireplace and touching a match to 
the light wood ready placed for a fire. “It will take 
the dampness out of the air, and—of your garments,” 
he added, with a furtive glance at the tall figure 
in the window. 

“Thank you, you are very kind,” said Dorothy, 
drawing nearer. The movement brought her close 
to the mantel, and she picked up one of the shells. 
“Did you gather these yourself?” she asked, won¬ 
dering at the light that leaped into his eyes at the 
question. 

Ethel, turning around a minute later, found them 
talking like old friends together. She even caught 
herself listening breathlessly to a story he was tell¬ 
ing of an Indian arrow he held in his hand. A 
sudden glance in her direction from the man’s dark 
eyes sent her back to her old position with an 
abruptness that surprised as well as displeased her. 

The storm was not a long one. The clouds were 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 31 

already lifting in the west and the rain was less 
flood-like in its descent. Finally the sun peeped out 
and flashed for a moment in Ethel’s eyes. 

Dorothy and their host were over at the bookcase 
deep in a discussion of the respective merits of Scott 
and Dickens, when Ethel crossed the room and came 
toward them. 

“I think,” she said, with the slightest of inclina¬ 
tions in Hustler Joe’s direction, “that the storm is 
over. We can go now.” 

“So it is,” said Dorothy; then turning to the man 
at her side she held out a cordial hand. “Thank 
you very much. You have been very kind.” 

“Yes, very kind—thank you,” murmured Ethel, 
bowing slightly and turning toward the door. “We 
shall have to go home by the road,” she announced 
regretfully a moment later, as she stood outside look¬ 
ing longingly at the hillside path where the wet grass 
sparkled in the sun. 

For a time the two girls walked on in silence, then 
Dorothy murmured softly: 

“Not a word of English—not a word!” 

Ethel gave a sidelong look from her lowered lids. 

“Well, I didn’t suppose they could!” she said 
petulantly. 

“I wouldn’t trust my life near one of them,” con¬ 
tinued Dorothy in the same low voice. 

Ethel shrugged her shoulders and a faint pink 
showed on her forehead. 

“Don’t!” she protested. “How could you talk 
with him so?—what dreadful boots he wore!” 

Dorothy laughed outright. 

“My dear, his boots do not cover his head. Would 
you have a man dig coal in patent-leathers?” 


Hustler Joe 


32 

Ethel made a wry face and was silent. 

“Seriously, dear,” Dorothy went on, “he was very 
interesting to me. His knowledge of books was most 
amazing. What he is doing here I can’t imagine— 
he’s no common miner!” 

“Oh, of course not,” laughed Ethel mockingly. 
“No doubt he’s a college president in disguise! But 
really, I’m not in the least interested. Let’s talk of 
something else.” And she changed the subject. 

And yet it was Ethel who, at dinner that night, 
turned to Mr. Barrington with the abrupt question: 

“Father, who is living in the old shanty just 
beyond the Deerfield woods?” 

“I’m sure I haven’t the least idea, my daughter,” 
replied the man, mildly indifferent. 

“Perhaps I can assist Miss Barrington in the 
matter,” interposed the smooth voice of Mark 
Hemenway. “It has lately been taken in hand by a 
curious creature known as 'Hustler Joe.’ ” 

“ 'Hustler Joe’?” murmured John Barrington. 

“Yes, sir, one of the men. A queer, silent sort— 
the kind that no good comes of. I’m keeping my 
eye on him, however.” 

“Indeed,” observed Ethel calmly. “I thought him 
quite the gentleman.” 

The effect of her words was like that of an electric 
shock around the table; in fact, Ethel herself felt 
it to some extent, for her remark was almost as much 
of a surprise to herself as to the others. 

“Why, my daughter!” murmured Mrs. Barring¬ 
ton faintly, and even Dorothy started. There was 
an ugly narrowing of Mark Hemenway’s eyes, but 
it was John Barrington who spoke. 

“Well, you seem to have the advantage,” he 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 33 

drawled. “Would you mind telling where the rest of 
us could meet—this gentleman?” 

His daughter laughed and lapsed into her old 
bantering tone. 


CHAPTER V 


T HAT portion of the Candria mine known as the 
“Bonanza” had been on the black-list of the 
miners for some time. It was more than two months 
since Henry Rotalick, a fire boss, had reported that 
an extra amount of gas seemed to be collecting in 
the district. The mine officials had begun at once 
to take the utmost precautions. 

The Bonanza was one of the wealthiest portions 
of the mine, but, the coal being deep and of very 
fine quality and the slate being particularly thick, 
it necessitated considerable blasting to get down to 
the finest parts. Owing to this and to the growing 
accumulations of gases, the miners had for some time 
past been repeatedly warned to use the greatest 
care. 

On the day after the thunderstorm, Hustler Joe 
was passing through this district when he came upon 
some miners drilling holes twelve feet or more in 
depth and preparing for an exceptionally heavy 
charge. 

“You’d better look out or you’ll bring the whole 
thing tumbling about your ears!” he said, with a 
sharp glance at one of the men who seemed much 
the worse for liquor. 

A snarl of oaths in various tongues followed him 
as he turned his back and walked away. 

Thirty minutes later every door in the Bonanza 
fell with a crash, and solid walls of masonry three 
feet through were torn as though they were but 
34 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 35 

barriers of paper, so terrible was the explosion that 
shook the earth. 

Hustler Joe was half a mile away. The shock 
threw him on his face, and for a minute he was too 
dazed to think. Then he staggered to his feet and 
rushed blindly forward straight toward the place 
where he thought the explosion had occurred. At 
every turn he met fleeing men, coatless, hatless and 
crazed with terror. Suddenly he came face to face 
with Bill Somers. 

“Good God, man! Where ye goin’? Are ye gone 
clean crazy?” demanded Bill, clutching Joe’s arm 
and trying to turn him about. 

For answer Hustler Joe wrenched himself free, 
picking up a half-unconscious miner and set him on 
his feet; then he dashed forward and attempted to 
raise a fallen door that had pinned another miner 
fast. 

“Jiminy Christmas! Ye ain’t goin’ ter stay in 
this hell of a place alone anyhow,” muttered Bill, 
bringing his broad shoulder and huge strength to 
bear on the door. In another moment the im¬ 
prisoned man was free and in broken English was 
calling on heaven to reward his rescuers. 

The two men did not falter for an instant, though 
all the while the deadly damp was closing around 
them. From gallery to gallery they went, warning, 
helping, dragging a comrade into a possible place 
of safety, until human endurance could stand it no 
longer. Exhausted, they staggered into a chamber 
which the fire damp had not entered. 

“We—we’d better git out—if we’re goin’ to,” 
panted Somers weakly. 

Joe was dizzy and faint. For himself he did not 
isare. He had long ago given up all thought of 


Hustler Joe 


36 

escape; but a sudden vision came to him of the little 
blue-eyed woman that he had so often seen clinging 
to this man’s arm and looking fondly into his face. 

“Your wife and babies, Somers-” murmured 

Joe, his hand to his head as he tried to think. “Yes, 
we must get out somehow. There’s the fanhouse— 
we might try that,” he added, groping blindly 
forward. 

The fanhouse, now out of use, stood at the top of 
the airshaft heading that led up through the Deer¬ 
field hill from the mine. And by this way the two 
men finally reached the open air, and there, blinking 
in the sunshine, they sank exhausted on the hillside. 

It was some time before Somers found strength 
to move, but his companion was up and away very 
soon. 

The Candria mine had two openings about four 
miles apart, that went by the names Silver Creek 
and Beachmont. The Bonanza section was a mile 
and a half from the surface, and was nearer to the 
Silver Creek opening than to the Beachmont. It 
was to the former entrance, therefore, that Hustler 
Joe turned his steps as soon as he could stand erect 
upon his feet. 

The news of the disaster was before him. Men 
running from the mine, barely escaping with their 
lives, had told fearful tales of crawling over the dead 
bodies of their companions in their flight. The 
story flew from lip to lip and quickly spread through 
the entire town. Mothers, wives, daughters, sons 
and sweethearts rushed to the mine entrances and 
frantically sought for news of their dear ones. 

When Hustler Joe reached the Silver Creek en¬ 
trance, a bit of a woman with a tiny babe in her 



The Atonement of Hustler Joe 37 

arms darted from the sobbing multitude and 
clutched his arm. 

“Bill—my Bill—did you see him?” she cried. 

Hustler Joe’s voice shook as it had not done that 
day. 

“On Deerfield hill, by the fanhouse—he’s all right, 
Mrs. Somers,” he said huskily; and the little woman 
sped with joyful feet back by the way she had come. 

It was Hustler Joe who was at the head of the 
first rescue party that attempted to enter the mine; 
but the deadly gases increased with every step. 
First one, then another of the heroic men suc¬ 
cumbed, until the rest were obliged to stagger back 
to the outer air, half carrying, half dragging their 
unconscious companions. 

Again and again was this repeated, until they 
were forced to abandon all hope of reaching the 
entombed miners from that direction; then hasty 
preparations were made to attempt the rescue from 
the Beachmont opening. Here, as at Silver Creek, 
Hustler Joe was untiring—directing, helping, en¬ 
couraging. The man seemed to work in almost a 
frenzy, yet every movement counted and his hand 
and head were steady. 

Slowly, so slowly they worked their way into the 
mine, fighting the damp at every turn. By using 
canvas screens to wall the side entrances and rooms, 
a direct current of pure air was forced ahead of the 
rescuers, and by night their first load of maimed and 
blackened forms was sent back to the mine entrance 
to be cared for by tender hands. 

All night Hustler Joe worked, and it was his strong 
arms that oftenest bore some suffering miner to air 
and safety. Once, far down a gallery, he heard a 
shrill laugh. A sound so strange brought the first 


Hustler Joe 


38 

tingle like fear to his heart. Another moment and 
a blackened form rushed upon him out of the dark¬ 
ness, angrily brandishing a pickaxe. Crazed with 
wandering for hours in that horrid charnel-house of 
the earth’s interior, the miner was ready to kill even 
his rescuers. He was quickly overpowered and his 
hands and feet were securely bound; then on 
Hustler Joe’s back he made the journey of a quarter 
of a mile to the cars that were waiting to bear him, 
and others like him, to the aid so sadly needed. 

Toward morning Hustler Joe was accosted by one 
of the doctors who had been working at his side half 
the night. 

“See here, my man, you’ve done enough. No 
human being can stand this sort of thing forever. 
I don’t like the look of your eye—go outside and get 
some rest. There are fifty men now that owe their 
lives to you alone. Come—you’d really better quit, 
for awhile, at least.” 

“Fifty? Fifty, did you say?” cried the miner 
eagerly. Then a look came into his face that haunted 
the doctor for long days after. “Would fifty count 
against—one?” he muttered as if to himself, then 
fell to work with a feverishness that laughed at the 
doctor’s warning, 

From dusk to dawn, and again from dawn to dusk, 
flying ambulances, hastily improvised from every 
sort of vehicle, coursed down the streets with their 
gruesome burdens. Weeping throngs surged about 
the Beachmont entrance and about the stricken 
homes of the dead. Sleepless wives and mothers 
waited all night for news of their missing dear ones, 
and peeped fearfully through closed blinds as the 
dead and injured were borne through the streets. 

But everywhere the name of Hustler Joe was 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 39 

breathed in gratitude and love. Tales of his bravery 
and of his rescues were on every lip, and when the 
man walked out of the mine that day, he walked 
straight into the hearts of every man, woman and 
child of the place. 

His fellow-workmen tried to show their love and 
appreciation by going in a body to his lonely cabin 
on the hillside. They found him muttering half 
crazily to himself: “Fifty lives for one—fifty for 
one!” And on the table before him he had placed 
fifty matches in a row and below them one other 
alone. 

They looked at him half fearfully, wholly pitifully, 
thinking the past horror had turned his brain. But 
he listened with brilliant eyes and flushed cheeks 
to their hearty words of thanks and seemed strangely 
eager to hear all that they had come to say. 

Yet the next morning his eyes were heavy with 
misery, and someone said that the matches lay 
strewn all over the floor where an impatient hand 
had cast them—all save one, left alone in the middle 
of the table. 


CHAPTER VI 


O N the day of the explosion in the Candria mine 
John Barrington sat on the broad piazza of 
The Maples reading his morning paper. Occasion¬ 
ally he glanced up to admire the charming picture 
his daughter and her friend made playing tennis on 
the lawn nearby. 

His night’s rest had been good and his morning’s 
beefsteak tender; moreover, a certain paragraph in 
the newspaper before him had warmed his heart and, 
in prospect, his pocketbook. He leaned back in his 
chair and sighed contentedly. 

After a time he spied Hemenway’s tall form at 
the far end of the winding walk leading to the house. 
There was a languid curiosity in his mind as to why 
Hemenway was walking so fast; but when he caught 
his first glimpse of his general superintendent’s face, 
his head came upright with a jerk, and he waited 
in some apprehension for the man- to speak. 

The girls on the lawn heard an exclamation of 
dismay from the piazza, then saw the two men pass 
rapidly down the walk and disappear in the direction 
of the town. Fifteen minutes later Jennie Somers, 
the parlormaid, crossed the lawn and approached 
Miss Barrington. All her pretty rose color had fled, 
and her eyes were wide and frightened. 

“I beg your pardon—but would you please let me 
go to town? There has been an explosion in the 
mine, and my brother—he may be hurt! May I 
please go?” 


40 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 41 

“An explosion? How terrible! Yes, yes, child— 
run right along. Don’t hurry back if you’re needed 
there,” said Miss Barrington. “I hope you’ll find 
your brother uninjured,” she added as the girl hur¬ 
ried away. When she turned to speak to Dorothy 
she found herself alone. 

Miss Fenno appeared a few minutes later dressed 
in a short walking suit. 

“Why, Dorothy!” 

“Has Jennie gone? If you don’t mind, dear, I’ll 
go with her. I might be able to do something,” ex¬ 
plained Dorothy hastily. 

“Mercy!” shuddered Ethel, “how can you go, 
dear? They’ll be all maimed and bleeding! There’ll 
be doctors and—and others to do everything need¬ 
ful. I wouldn’t go—really, dear.” 

“I know—but there’ll be something else to do. I 
might help someone—Jennie, for instance, if she 

found her brother injured. I really want to go- 

Oh, there she is!” And Miss Fenno hurried after 
Jennie’s swiftly moving figure. 

Ethel was restless when her friend had gone. She 
wandered aimlessly around the grounds, then went 
indoors and began to play a waltz on the piano. The 
piece was scarcely half through, however, before her 
fingers moved more and more slowly, finally straying 
into a minor wail that ended abruptly in a discordant 
crash as the player rose from the piano-stool. 

Miss Barrington’s next move was to take the field- 
glass from the library and go upstairs to the tower. 
From there she could see the village and catch occa¬ 
sional glimpses of hurrying forms. She could see the 
Silver Creek entrance to the mine, too, and she 
shuddered at the crowds her glasses showed her there. 
Twice she turned her eyes away and started down 



Hustler Joe 


42 

the winding stairs, but each time she returned to 
her old position and gazed in a fascination quite 
unaccountable to herself at the moving figures in 
the distance. 

By and by she saw the head-gardener coming 
rapidly up the road from the town. As he entered 
the driveway she hurried down the stairs and out 
into the kitchen. 

“Were there many injured, Peter?” she asked 
anxiously as the man came into the room. 

“They don't know yet, ma’am; they can’t get into 
the mine. They’re goin’ to try the Beachmont 
openin’ now.” 

“Perhaps they won’t find things so bad as they 
think,” she suggested. 

“Mebbe not; but them that has come out, ma’am, 
tell sorry tales of creepin’ over dead men’s bodies— 
there ain’t much hope for the poor fellers inside now, 
I’m ’fraid.” 

“Is—is there anything one can do?” 

Peter shook his head. 

“Not much, ma’am. They can’t get in to get ’em 
out. The young lady from the house here has got 
her hands full with the women and children. They 
are takin’ on awful, of course, but she kinder calms 
’em down—she and that feller they call Hustler 
Joe.” 

Miss Barrington turned away. As she opened the 
door she stopped abruptly and looked back into the 
kitchen. 

“If they need anything, Peter—anything at all— 
come to me at once,” she said hurriedly, and closed 
the door behind her. 



The Atonement of Hustler Joe 43 

It was at dinner the next night that Mr. Barring¬ 
ton said to his general superintendent: 

“What was the matter with Rotalick today? I 
heard you laying down the law pretty sharp to him 
this noon.” 

“Oh, he wanted a prima donna, that’s all.” 

“A what?” 

Hemenway laughed. 

“Yes, I thought so, too. It was simply this. 
There isn’t anyone to sing at the funerals Thursday. 
The choir that usually sings at funerals hereabouts 
is incapacitated through injuries to the bass and 
loss of a husband to the soprano. Rotalick wanted 
a day off to go hunting for singers over in West¬ 
mont.” 

“Humph!” commented Mr. Barrington. 

“I rather think our departed friends will excuse 
the lack of music,” laughed the general superin¬ 
tendent coarsely; but the laugh ceased at a flash 
from Miss Barrington’s eyes. 

“Will you be so kind, Mr. Hemenway, as to tell 
the man that I will sing Thursday?” Once more 
the electric shock ran around the table, and once 
more Mrs. Barrington murmured faintly, “Why, my 
daughter!” 

This time Mark Hemenway rose promptly to the 
occasion. 

“How very kind!” he said suavely. “Indeed, Miss 
Barrington, one could almost afford to die for so 
great an honor. I will tell Rotalick. The miners 
will be overjoyed—they have bitterly bemoaned the 
probable lack of music tomorrow. Funny they 
should care so much!” 

“Oh, I don’t know—they are human beings, I sup¬ 
pose,” Miss Barrington suggested. 


44 


Hustler Joe 


“Yes—of course—certainly—but then-” 

“You seem troubled to find a solution,” she re¬ 
marked, with slightly uplifted eyebrows; “suppose 
you give it up?” 

“Suppose I do,” he acquiesced with, ready grace, 
glad of the way of escape she had opened. 


CHAPTER VII 


V/T ANY of the victims of the explosion had lived 
in Westmont, but for those whose homes had 
been in Skinner Valley a succession of funeral 
services had been arranged to take place in the 
Slovak Catholic Church, the largest audience-room 
in the town. It was here that Miss Barrington had 
offered to sing, and* as one sad service followed an¬ 
other in rapid succession the task she had under¬ 
taken was no slight one. 

But her heart did not lose its courage nor her voice 
its sweetness all through those long hours. She did 
grow sick and faint, though, as the throngs of weep¬ 
ing women and children filed* in and out of the 
church, and her voice trembled and nearly broke 
when a young girl fainted and- sank to the floor. 

Hustler Joe had not been known to step inside 
of a church since he came to Skinner Valley. On the 
day of the funerals he had lapsed into his old un¬ 
approachableness. He left his cabin early in the 
morning and joined the moving crowds toward the 
church, but, once there, he lost himself in the 
throngs outside instead of entering the doors. 

Hustler Joe had long since made up his mind that 
a church was no place for him. He had the rever¬ 
ence, born of a New England boyhood’s training, for 
all things sacred, and he had come to feel that his 
own presence was an unpardonable insult to any 
holy place. 

The windows of the church were open and the 
45 


Hustler Joe 


46 

chanting tones of the priest floated out to his ears. 
He imagined himself as one of those still, silent 
forms before the chancel, and he bitterly envied the 
dead. 

“’Twould have been the easiest way out of it!” 
he muttered under his breath. “By Jove, what a 
voice!” he added aloud a moment later, as the 
priest’s droning gave way to the flute-like tones of a 
singer. 

“It’s old Barrington’s daughter—ain’t she great?” 
said Bill Somers at his elbow. The man had been 
there several minutes furtively watching for a chance 
to speak. 

Hustler Joe did not answer until the last note 
quivered into silence. Then he drew a long breath 
and turned around. 

“Barrington’s daughter? What is she doing here?” 

“Singin’—didn’t ye hear her?” 

“But why? How happens it?” Joe demanded. 

“Rotalick said she heard how that the choir 
couldn’t sing and that the Slavs and Poles were 
makin’ a terrible touse ’cause there wa’n’t no music. 
So she jest stepped up as pleasant as ye please an’ 
said she’d sing for ’em. She’s a daisy, an’ as purty 
as a picture. Have ye seen her?” 

“Yes,” replied Hustler Joe shortly, moving away. 

Ethel Barrington’s singing won her many sincere, 
if humble, admirers that day, but perhaps no one 
inside the building listened quite so hungrily for 
every tone that fell from her lips as did a tall, sad¬ 
eyed man who stood outside—just beneath the open 
window. 

When the last sombre procession had moved away 
from the doors, and Miss Barrington herself, white 
and faint with weariness, stepped into her carriage, 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 47 

Hustler Joe left his position under the window and 
walked slowly towards his home. 

“Yes, I'll go back/' he muttered. “There's nothing 
but hell upon earth to be gained by running away 
in this cowardly fashion. I’ll give myself up and 
take the consequences—which will be hell somewhere 
else, I suppose,” he added grimly. “Good God—it 
can’t be worse than this!” 

He pushed open his cabin door and looked about 
him with troubled eyes. For the first time he was 
conscious of a fondness for the place. 

“I’ll give them to Jim,” he said aloud, his eyes 
lingering on the books and on the shells and curios 
over the mantel. 

With feverish haste he began collecting a few 
necessaries into a travelling-bag. It was packed and 
strapped when there came a knock at the door. At 
so unusual an occurrence Hustler Joe started guiltily. 
Then he crossed the room and threw wide the door. 

The bent form of an old woman with two 
frightened eyes peering out from beneath a worn 
shawl confronted him. 

“Has he been here?” she whispered, stepping into 
the room and glancing furtively around her. 

“He? Who?” 

“Then he hasn’t, or you’d know it,” she answered 
in a relieved tone; but her expression changed 
almost instantly, and her frail form shook with 
terror. “But he may come! You wouldn’t give him 
up—you’re Hustler Jim, ain’t ye? They say you’re 
good an’ kind. Oh, you wouldn’t give him up!” 

A strange look came into the miner’s eyes. 

“No, I wouldn’t give him up,” he said after a 
moment. “But who is he? And who are you?” 

“I’m his mother, sir. He didn’t know anyone was 


Hustler Joe 


48 

livin’ here/’ she apologized, “an’ he sent me a bit 
of paper say in’ he’d meet me here tonight. Oh, sir, 
they’d hang him if they got him! Hang him!” she 
shuddered. 

Hustler Joe’s lips twitched, then settled into stern 
lines. 

“Ye see,” continued the woman, her voice husky 
with feeling, “his daddy was—was one of them that 
was killed, an’ my boy came back to look once more 
on his poor dead face today. He said he’d colored 
his hair an’ changed his looks so no one would know 
him; but oh, they’d hang him—hang my boy!” she 
finished in a frenzy, wringing her hands and swaying 
her body from side to side. 

Through the window Hustler Joe saw the figure 
of a man moving among the shadows of the trees 
near the house. The miner stepped close to the old 
woman and laid a light hand on her shoulder. 

“Listen! I am going away for an hour. When I 
am out of sight, go out to the trees behind the house 
and call your boy in. I shall be gone and shall know 
nothing of it—you can trust me. Do you under¬ 
stand?” 

A heartfelt “God bless you!” rang in his ears as he 
left the house and hurried away. 

When he returned an hour later he found these 
words scrawled on a bit of brown wrapping-paper: 

You treated me white. Thanks. You don’t know what 
you saved my mother. It would have broke her heart 
if they had strung me up. Thanks. 

Hustler Joe stared fixedly at the note long after 
he had read it; then he tore the paper into tiny 
bits and dropped them into the fireplace. Very 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 49 

slowly he opened the travelling-bag and unpacked 
one by one the articles therein. When the bag was 
empty and the room restored to its spotless order, 
he drew a long breath. 

“Yes, ’twould break her heart; she’s less miser¬ 
able if I stay where I am,” he murmured. “Poor 
dear mother, she’s suffered enough through me 
already!” 


CHAPTER VIII 


T HE days that followed were busy ones for Ethel. 

Company made The Maples gay with fun and 
laughter; but Ethel did not drop her newly awak¬ 
ened interest in the miners. By her earnest per¬ 
suasion Miss Fenno had agreed to lengthen her 
visit, the need of these same miners having been 
held up by the wary Ethel as good and sufficient 
reason for her remaining. 

A maid, laden with the best the house afforded, 
always accompanied Dorothy on her frequent visits 
to the town, and sometimes Ethel herself went. It 
was after her first trip to this sort that she burst 
unceremoniously into the library. 

“Father, do you do anything for them?” she de¬ 
manded breathlessly. 

“My dear, not being aware of the antecedent of 
that pronoun, I may not be able to give a satisfac¬ 
tory answer to your question.” 

“What? Oh—sure enough!” laughed Ethel. “I 
mean the miners, of course.” 

“Since when—this philanthropic spirit, my 
dear?” 

“Do you. father?” persisted Ethel, ignoring the 
question. 

“Well,” Mr. Barrington began, putting the tips 
of his forefingers together impressively, “we think 
we do considerable. We are not overbearing; we 
force no ‘company store’ on them, but allow that 
curious little Pedler Jim full sway. We—how- 
50 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 5T 

ever, have you anything to suggest ?” he suddenly 
demanded in mild sarcasm. 

Somewhat to his surprise Miss Barrington did 
have something to suggest, and that something was 
not particularly to his mind. However, when Miss 
Barrington set out to have her own way she usually 
had it, even with her comfort-loving father—per¬ 
haps it was because he was a comfort-loving father 
that he always succumbed in the end. 

At all events, the Candria Mining Company, after 
the explosion in the Bonanza section, organized a 
system of relief to which they ever after adhered. 
The family of each miner killed in the disaster, or 
dying from its effects, received one thousand dollars 
cash over and above all medical and burial expenses. 
The maimed were dealt with according to the extent 
of their injuries. 

The mine was a great source of interest to all of 
Miss Barrington’s friends, and it was accounted a 
great day among them when a party under careful 
escort were allowed to “do the mines,” as they en¬ 
thusiastically termed a glimpse of the mine buildings 
and a short trip through a few underground pas¬ 
sages. 

Two weeks after the explosion Ethel, with a merry 
party of ladies and gentlemen led by Mark Hemen- 
way, and duly chaperoned, started for the Beach- 
mont entrance to the mine. The general superin¬ 
tendent was in his element. He explained and 
exhibited all through the outer buildings, and was 
about to take his charges into the mine when an 
unavoidable something intervened and claimed his 
immediate attention. It was with evident reluc¬ 
tance that he therefore handed his party over to Bill 
Somers, who, having proved himself careful and at- 


Hustler Joe 


52 

tentive, had often before been intrusted with the 
escort of sight-seers over the mines. 

To Ethel the change was a relief. A vague unrest 
had lately assailed her whenever in Hemenway’s 
presence and she had almost unconsciously begun to 
avoid him. Her old indifference to his existence had 
given way to a growing realization that there was 
such a being, and the realization was bringing with 
it an intangible something not quite pleasant. 

The feminine portion of the party followed Bill 
Somers through the strange underground chambers 
with daintily lifted skirts and with many a shudder 
and half-smothered shriek. And though they 
laughed and chatted at times, they cast sidelong 
glances of mingled curiosity and aversion at the 
stalwart forms of the begrimed miners. 

“Is—is this anywhere near the—accident?” asked 
Miss Barrington, looking behind her fearfully. 

“No, ma’am—oh, no!” reassured Bill Somers 
quickly. “The Bonanza is a long ways off. We 
don’t go nowheres near there today, ma’am.” 

“Oh, was there an accident?” chimed in a pretty 
girl with rose-pink cheeks. 

“Sure; this was the mine, wasn’t it?” interposed a 
fussy little man with eyeglasses through which he 
was peering right and left with his small, near¬ 
sighted eyes. 

“Tell us about it, please,” begged three or four 
voices at once; and Bill needed no second bidding. 

When they passed Hustler Joe, Somers pointed 
him out, and as they walked on into the next gallery 
he told with unconscious power the story of the 
heroic rescue of the imprisoned men. The shifting 
shadows and twinkling lights made the telling more 
impressive, and the dusky forms flitting in and out 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 53 

of the mysterious openings on either side, added a 
realistic touch to the tale that sobered the gay crowd 
not a little. Their interest in the earth’s interior 
waned perceptibly. 

“Are—are we on the way out, now?” asked the 
pretty girl, her cheeks showing white in the gloom. 

“No, ma’am; we’re goin’ in deeper. Wa’n’t that 
what ye wanted?” returned Bill. 

“Yes, of course,” murmured the girl, without en¬ 
thusiasm. 

The man with glasses coughed. 

“Really, Miss Barrington, this is beastly air. It 
might be well enough to go back before long.” 

Bill Somers took the hint. He knew the type to 
which the fussy little man belonged. The party 
turned about, and the pretty girl’s eyes flashed with 
a grateful glance—a glance which the near-sighted- 
glassed saw and promptly appropriated. 

As they repassed Hustler Joe, Ethel Barrington 
dropped behind the others and came close to the 
miner’s side. 

“I want to thank you myself,” she said, the crim¬ 
son staining her cheeks as she impulsively held out a 
slim, ungloved hand. “I want to tell you how much 
I appreciate your courage and bravery at the 
explosion.” 

The man flushed painfully. As he reluctantly 
touched her finger-tips, she added: 

“You must be so happy to have saved so many 
lives. I knew you were a good man the minute 
I saw your face!” 

Hustler Joe grew white to the lips, dropped her 
hand rudely and turned away without a word. 

Hemenway met the party at the entrance of the 


Hustler Joe 


54 

mine. He was profuse in apologies for his enforced 
absence and in offerings of further service, but Miss 
Barrington dismissed him with a cool “Thank you; 
nothing more,” and led the way to The Maples. 

Miss Barrington was vexed—worse than that, she 
was vexed because she was vexed. Her pulse quick¬ 
ened and her nostrils dilated as she thought of 
Hustler Joe and of the way he had met her im¬ 
pulsive greeting. 

“The—the rude—boor!” she said to herself, at loss 
for words to express fittingly that to which she was 
so little accustomed. A lingering touch or a gentle 
pressure was the usual fare of Miss Barrington’s 
graciously extended hand—never this wordless 
touching of her finger-tips and hasty, rude release. 
“Not that I care,” she thought, with a disdainful 
tilt of her head. “But he might have been decently 
civil!” she added, with a scornful smile as she 
thought of how differently a score of pampered 
youths of her acquaintance would have received so 
signal a mark of favor as she had that afternoon 
bestowed on an all too unappreciative miner. 

When Hustler Joe had left Miss Barrington so 
abruptly he had attacked his work with a fierceness 
that even the miners had never seen him show. “A 
good man—a good man—‘I knew you were a good 
man!’ ” he muttered between his teeth. “A ‘good’ 
man indeed—bah!” he snarled aloud, wdelding his 
pick with long, sweeping strokes. Then he suddenly 
stood upright. “Great God—am I not a good man? 
Have fifty lives not a feather’s weight?” 

The pick dropped from his relaxed fingers, and 
his hands went up to his head. 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 55 

“Ah, no,” he moaned; “father—father—fifty, a 
hundred—a thousand times a hundred could not tip 
the scales with your dear, dead self on the other 
side!” 


CHAPTER IX 


E XCITING days came to Skinner Valley. Gold 
was discovered far up the creek. A man fur¬ 
nished with funds by Mark Hemenway, who long 
had expressed faith in the locality, had “struck it 
rich,” and the general superintendent awoke one day 
to find himself wealthy. 

The effect of this awakening was as immediate as 
it was startling. His commanding tones took on 
an added imperiousness, his clothing a new flashi¬ 
ness, and his whole demeanor an importance likely 
to impress the most casual of beholders. His veiled 
attentions to Miss Barrington gave way to a de¬ 
voted homage that was apparent to all men, and so 
thick was his armor of self-conceit that her daily 
snubs fell pointless at his feet. 

Miss Barrington had never before spent so long 
a time at The Maples, and Mr. Hemenway’s sudden 
accession to wealth resulted, as far as she was 
concerned, in hasty preparations to leave. Her 
guests were already gone. 

On the day before her intended departure she 
started off by herself to enjoy one more sunset from 
the clearing beyond the Deerfield woods, the place 
where she and Dorothy were overtaken by that 
memorable thunder-shower. 

Mark Hemenway did not confine himself so 
strictly to business these days as had heretofore been 
his custom, and he was upstairs in his room where 
56 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 57 

he spied Miss Barrington’s lithe figure disappearing 
in the grove that skirted the grounds on the west. 

The general superintendent had lately invested in 
a tall silk hat, and it was this impressive bit of 
headgear that he donned as he left the house and 
followed, at a discreet distance, the form of the 
woman he meant to marry. 

Since Hemenway had become rich this idea of 
marriage had strengthened wonderfully. In a cer¬ 
tain coarse way the man was handsome, and the 
only class of women with which he had ever come 
in contact had readily welcomed his attentions. He 
had supposed the lack of money would be the only 
drawback in the eyes of this his latest love, and now 
that the lack no longer existed he was confident of 
success. 

Miss Barrington followed the path very leisurely, 
picking a flower or a fern here and there, and softly 
humming a tune. Upon reaching the clearing she 
settled herself comfortably under her favorite tree 
and opened her book to read. It was then that 
Hemenway approached from the shadows of the 
path she had just left. 

At the snapping of a dry twig Miss Barrington 
glanced up. Her first impulse was to laugh, so 
absurd did the checkered trousers, flaming watch- 
charm and silk hat look to her against the back¬ 
ground of the cool green woods. But the laugh 
was killed at birth by an angry objection that the 
man should be there at all. Even then she sup¬ 
posed him to be merely passing by and that he 
might stop for a w^ord or two. 

“Ah, good afternoon, Miss Barrington. What a 
surprise to find you here,” fibbed Hemenway, ad¬ 
vancing with easy confidence. 


Hustler Joe 


58 

“Good afternoon, Mr. Hemenway.” Miss Bar¬ 
rington moved her book suggestively and lowered 
her eyes. 

“Charming view you have here!” said the man. 

No reply. 

“You have an interesting book there, Miss Bar¬ 
rington?” 

“I don’t know—I’m trying to find out,” replied 
Miss Barrington with calm but ineffectual rudeness. 

“Um—delightful place to read! Nice day, too.” 

No answer. 

Mr. Hemenway looked down approvingly at the 
lowered lids of the girl’s eyes and, blinded by his 
vast conceit, mistook the flush of annoyance for the 
blush of maidenly shyness. “I never did like a girl 
to fling herself in my face,” he mused, coming a 
little nearer. 

“Well,” he said aloud, “if you have no objections, 
Miss Barrington, I’ll just stop a bit with you and 
enjoy this breeze,” and he cast himself at her feet 
in careful imitation of the attitude he had seen the 
fussy man with glasses assume only the week 
before. 

Miss Barrington was speechless with indignation. 
Her first instinct was to spring to her feet, but the 
paralysis of amazement that had struck her dumb 
had also rendered her, for the moment, incapable of 
motion. A sudden determination to “teach the man 
a lesson and stop once for alt this insufferable 
persecution”—as her mind expressed it—followed, 
and she remained passively quiet. 

There was an uncomfortable silence that to any 
man but Hemenway would have proved embarras¬ 
sing. 

“Er—I believe I haven’t told you,” he began 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 59 

finally, “how kind I thought it was of you to interest 
yourself as you have in the miners.” 

“It is not necessary that you should,” said Ethel 
icily. 

“Very becoming modesty!” thought Hemenway. 
Aloud he said: “Oh, no, not necessary, perhaps, 
but I want to do it. It is a pleasure to me.” 

“It is not one to me.” 

Hemenway frowned. There was such a thing as 
carrying this modesty too far. 

“Your singing, too—it was delightful!” he con¬ 
tinued smoothly. “And so kind of you to do it!” 

Miss Barrington turned a leaf of her book with an 
unnecessary rustling of the paper. 

“Feigning indifference,” commented Hemenway 
to himself. “I’ve seen ’em do that before.” 

“You looked so tired that night after the funerals. 
I actually worried about you—you looked sick,” he 
said next, in what was meant for tender tones. 

Miss Barrington’s eyes narrowed ominously as she 
replied: 

“Mr. Hemenway, my actions and my looks can 
have no possible interest for you. I should be 
obliged if you would cease to consider them.” 

To Hemen way’s perverted fancy this was but a bit 
of shy bait. He promptly took advantage of it. 

“On the contrary, I have the very greatest inter¬ 
est, my dear Miss Barrington—the very warmest 
interest. I—I—Miss Barrington, as you may be 
aware, I am a rich man now.” 

“That does not concern me in the least,” retorted 
Ethel sharply. 

A strange expression came over Hemenway’s face. 
For the first time a doubt shook his egotistical con¬ 
tent. His eyes grew hard. No maidenly shyness 


60 Hustler Joe 

prompted that speech. Still—possibly she had not 
understood. 

“Miss Barrington, it has long been in my mind to 
ask you to be my wife. I love you, and now I am 
rich I am confident I can make you-” 

“Stop! I won’t even listen to you!” Miss Bar¬ 
rington was on her feet, her eyes blazing. 

Hemenway rose and faced her. All his polish 
dropped like a mask, and the real man looked out 
from beneath angrily frowning brows. 

“You won’t listen, my fine lady? And why not, 
pray? Ain’t I good enough oo speak to you?” 

“I hate you—I despise you—oh, I loathe the very 
sight of you!” shuddered Ethel, losing all control of 
herself. “Now will you leave me in peace—or must 
I say more before you quite understand me?” 

Hate—despise—loathe; these words Hemenway 
knew. The delicate shafts of society sarcasm fell 
powerless against his shield of self-conceit, but these 
heavier darts struck home and reached a vital point 
—his pride. His face grew livid. 

“Will you go?” repeated Ethel impatiently, not a 
quiver of fear in the scorn of her eyes—“or shall I?” 
she added. 

“Neither one!” he retorted insolently. 

For answer Ethel wheeled and took two steps to¬ 
ward the path. Hemenway was at her side in an 
instant with a clutch on her wrist that hurt her. 

“Coward!” she cried. “Would you force me to 
scream for protection?” 

“Do so, if you like—there’s not a house within 
earshot, and the inhabitants of this region are not 
given to walking for pleasure!” He released her 
wrist and again stepped in front of her. 

The sharp throb of terror that paled Ethel’s cheek 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 61 

was followed by one of joy that sent the color back 
in surging waves—Hustler Joe’s shanty just behind 
those trees! It was after six—he must be there. If 
worst came to worst-! 

“Mr. Hemenway, this is altogether too theatrical. 
I ask you again—will you let me pass?” 

“If you think I am a man to be loathed and hated 
and despised with impunity, young lady, you are 
much mistaken. No, I won’t let you pass—you’ll 
listen to me. I want none of your airs! ” he finished 
sourly. 

Ethel’s head bent in a scornful bow. 

“Very well, suppose we walk on, then,” she said. 
“I’m tired of standing.” And she turned about and 
began walking in the opposite direction from the 
path that led toward home. 

Mark Hemenway was suspicious of this sudden 
acquiescence. He hurried to her side and looked 
sharply into her face. 

“None of your tricks, young lady! I mean busi¬ 
ness,” he snarled. “If you ain’t willing to hear 
what I’ve got to say by fair means, you shall by 
foul! ” he added, bringing a small revolver into view, 
then slipping it back into his pocket. 

Ethel was thoroughly frightened. She thought 
Hemenway must be mad. 

“I should think you had stepped out of a dime 
novel, Mr. Hemenway,” she began, trying to steady 
her shaking lips. “Nobody wins a bride at the point 
of a pistol nowadays!” The trees that hid Hustler 
Joe’s shanty from view were very near now. 

“Then you needn’t treat me as I was nothing but 
the dirt under your feet,” he muttered sullenly, 
already regretting his absurd threat of a moment 
before. 


Hustler Joe 


62 

Ethel suddenly darted forward and around the 
edge of the trees, ran across the lawn and sprang up 
the steps of the shanty. Hemenway was close to her 
heels when she flung the door open with a bang and 
stood face to face with Hustler Joe. 

“Will you please take me home?” she asked, try¬ 
ing to speak as though she considered it a customary 
thing to invade a man’s house and demand his 
escort in this unceremonious fashion. “Mr. Hemen¬ 
way is—busy and cannot go,” she added, with a 
cheerful assurance due to the presence of the big¬ 
bodied miner at her side. 

Hustler Joe instantly accepted the part she had 
given him to play. 

“I shall be glad to be of any service,” he said re¬ 
spectfully, with ready tact, but with a sharp glance 
at Hemenway. 

The general superintendent bowed to Miss Bar¬ 
rington with uplifted hat, then turned and walked 
away. 

“Please do not ask me any questions,” said Miss 
Barrington hurriedly to Hustler Joe as they left the 
house. “You had better take me by the path 
through the woods—it is the nearer way, and would 
be less embarrassing than the main road would be 
for—both of us. I know you think my conduct 
extraordinary, but, believe me, I had good reason for 
asking your escort. You—you always seem to be 
around when I need someone!” she concluded, with 
an hysterical little laugh—the tension to which she 
had been keyed was beginning to tell on her. 

“No apology is needed,” demurred the man 
gravely. “I think I understand.” 

That walk was a strange one. The sun had set 
and the woods were full of shadows, and of sounds 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 63 

unheard in daytime. Ethel was faint and nervous. 
The miner was silent. Once or twice Ethel spoke 
perfunctorily. His answers were civil but short. 
At the edge of the private grounds the girl paused. 

“Thank you very much; I shall not forget your 
courtesy,” she said, hesitating a moment, then reso¬ 
lutely offering her hand. 

It was not the finger-tips the man touched this 
time—it was the hand from nail to wrist; and his 
clasp quite hurt her with its fierceness. 

“Miss Barrington, you thought me a brute the 
other day when you spoke so kindly to me, and no 
wonder. I can only beg your pardon—your Words 
cut deep. I am going to the mines tomorrow—the 
gold mines, I mean. Fm glad I had this chance to 
speak to you. You were wrong, Miss Barrington, 
—I—I’m not the good man you think!” He 
dropped her hand and turned away. 

“I—I don’t believe it!” she called softly, and 
fled, swift-footed, across the lawn. 

Mark Hemenway did not appear at The Maples 
that night. A message from him received by Mr. 
Barrington in the evening said that he had been 
suddenly called away on business connected with 
his gold mine; that he would return soon, however, 
and would like immediately to make arrangements 
whereby he could sever his connection with the 
Oandria Mining Company, as his new interests 
needed all his attention. 

“Humph! commented Mr. Barrington. “I 
never saw a little money make such a darn fool of a 
man as it has of Hemenway!” 

Ethel’s lips parted, then closed with sudden de- 


Hustler Joe 


64 

termination. Twelve hours later she left for Dal¬ 
ton without mentioning to her father her experience 
of the day before, and within a week she had sailed 
from New York on a steamer bound for Liverpool. 


CHAPTER X 


T HE discovery of gold had made all the miners at 
Skinner Valley restless, and Hustler Joe was 
among the first to take his wages and start for the 
promised bonanza. 

Hustler Joe of the coal mines was still “Hustler 
Joe” of the gold mines. The same ceaseless, untir¬ 
ing energy spurred the man on to constant labor. 
The claim he staked out proved to be the richest in 
the place and wealth sought him out and knocked at 
his cabin door. 

Strange to say, Hustler Joe was surprised. He 
had come to the mines simply because they prom¬ 
ised excitement and change. He had thought, too, 
that possibly they harbored the peace and forgetful¬ 
ness for which he had so longed. 

But peace fled at his approach and wealth had 
come unasked. Manlike, he regarded the unsought 
with indifference and gazed only at the unattainable; 
whereupon wealth rustled her golden garments to 
charm his ears and flashed her bright beauty to 
dazzle his eyes. Still failing to win his heart, she 
whispered that she—even she—was peace in dis¬ 
guise, and that he had but to embrace her to find 
what he sought. 

It was then that Hustler Joe yielded. In a year 
he had sold half his claim for a fabulous sum. The 
other half he retained, and leaving it to be developed 
under the charge of expert engineers, he left for 
Skinner Valley. 


66 


66 


Hustler Joe 


Hustler Joe had never forgotten the little hunch¬ 
back pedler, nor the debt of gratitude he owed 
him. Many a time in the old days at the coal 
mines he had tried to pay this debt, but always, 
in his own estimation, he had failed. So it was of 
Pedler Jim that he first thought when this new 
power of wealth came into his hands. 

The news of Hustler Joe’s good luck had not 
reached Skinner Valley, and the man was in the 
same rough miner’s garb when he pushed open the 
familiar door of the “Emporium” in search of 
Pedler Jim. 

“Well, if it ain’t Hustler Joe!” exclaimed the 
hunchback delightedly. “You’re a sight good fur 
sore eyes. Come back ter stay?” 

“Well, awhile, maybe. How’s the world using 
you these days, Jim?” 

“Oh, fair—fair; ’tain’t quite’s good as I’d like— 
but I ain’t complainin’.” 

“I wonder if anything would make you complain 
—I never heard you,” remarked Joe, helping himself 
to a seat on the counter. 

“Well now that ye mention it, mebbe I don’t much 
—I hain’t no need to. My appetite’s good an’ my 
conscience is clear; an’ a clear conscience is-” 

“Jim,” interrupted the miner sharply, “did you 
ever hear of Aladdin and his lamp?” 

“Huh? Oh, the feller that rubbed it and got what 
he wanted?” 

“That’s the chap.” 

“Well—s’posin’ I have?” 

“Oh, I only wondered what you’d ask for if you 
had one to rub.” 

“Gorry—I wish’t I had!” 



The Atonement of Hustler Joe 67 

“Well, what would you?” persisted Joe, his face 
alight. 

“What would I? Well, IT1 tell ye. I’d buy the 
big house on the hill-” 

“What—Barrington’s?” interrupted Joe. 

“Gee whiz, no! I mean the empty one that Rota- 
lick lived in; an’ I’d make it over into a hospital, an’ 
I’d add to it as I was able.” 

“A hospital?” Why, there is one.” 

“Yes, I know—the company’s; but the boys al¬ 
ways have ter quit there long ’fore they’re able. 
They can’t work, an’ if they laze ’round home it 
takes furever to git well—what with the noise an’ 
the children an’ all. They crawl down here to the 
store, an’ my heart jest aches fur ’em, they’re so 
peaked-lookin’. I’d have it all fixed up with trees 
an’ posies an’ places ter set, ye know, where they 
could take some comfort while they was gittin’ 
wefi.” 

A moisture came into Joe’s eyes. 

“But how about yourself?” he asked. “You 
haven’t rubbed out anything for yourself, Jim.” 

“Fur me? Gorry—if I jest had that lamp, you’d 
see me rubbin’ out somethin’ fur me, all right. I’ve 
been wantin’ ter send home a box ter the old folks— 
’way back in Maine, ye know. Jiminy Christmas, 
man, there’d be no end ter the black silk dresses and 
gold-headed canes an’ fixin’s an’ furbelows that I’d 
rub out an’ send ter ’em!” 

Hustler Joe laughed; then something came into 
his throat and choked the laugh back. 

“But all this isn’t for you, Jim,” he remon¬ 
strated. 

“Huh? Not fur me? Fur heaven’s sake, man, 
who is it fur, then?” 


68 


Hustler Joe 


The miner laughed again and slid off the counter. 

“You've got quite a store, Jim. Ever wish you 
had more room?" he asked abruptly. 

Pedler Jim not only nibbled at the bait, but 
swallowed it. 

“Well, ye see, I'm goin' ter have the place next 
door when I git money enough and then I'll jine 'em 
together. That'll be somethin’ worth while," he 
continued. 

Hustler Joe easily kept him talking on this fasci¬ 
nating theme a full ten minutes, then he prepared 
to take his leave. 

“Let's see," he mused aloud, “you came from 
Maine, you say. About where—the town, I mean?" 

Jim named it. 

“You say the old folks are living there yet?" 

Jim nodded. 

“Name is Powers, I suppose, same as yours; maybe 
you were named for your father, eh?" 

“No, father's name was Ebenezer, an' mother ob¬ 
jected—so it’s ‘Jim’ I am. Why? Goin' ter dig up 
my family tree by the roots?" asked the little man 
whimsically. 

“Not a bit of it!" laughed the miner, looking 
strangely embarrassed as he hurried out the door. 

“Monte Cristo" had been Hustler Joe’s favorite 
tale in his boyhood days. He thought of it now, as 
he left the “Emporium" and the thought brought a 
smile to his lips. 

A few days later Pedler Jim was dumbfounded to 
receive a call from a Westmont lawyer. 

“Well, my friend," the man began, “I have a few 
little documents here that demand your attention." 

Pedler Jim eyed the formidable-looking papers 
with some apprehension. 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 69 

“Now, see here, sir,” he demurred, “my conscience 
is perfectly clear. I don’t want nothin’ to do with 
sech devilish-lookin’ things as that!”—his eyes on 
the big red seal. “I hain’t never harmed no one— 
’tain’t an arres’, is it?” he added, his voice suddenly 
failing him. 

“Well, hardly!” returned the lawyer, chuckling to 
himself. “This, my friend, is the deed, filled out in 
your name, to the Rotalick property on the hill back 
here; and this,” he continued, taking up another 
paper and paying no attention to the little hunch¬ 
back, who had dropped in limp stupefaction on to a 
packing-box, “this is the deed—also made out in 
your name—to the building adjoining this store on 
the south. Mr. Batch, the present occupant, has a 
lease which expires in two months. After that the 
property is at your disposal.” 

“But where in thunder did I git it?” demanded 
Pedler Jim. 

“That is not my business, sir,” said the lawyer, 
with a bow. 

“Well, I’ll be jiggered!” murmured the hunch¬ 
back, gingerly picking up one of the deeds and 
peering at it. 

Pedler Jim was still further astounded to find 
that to his tiny bank account had been added a sum 
so large that he scarcely believed his eyes. It was 
entered under the name “Hospital Fund.” 

Following close upon all this came a letter from 
the folks at home: 

Dear Jimmie: 

What a good, good son we have, and how can we 
ever thank you? (“Dear Jimmie” looked blank.) The 
black silk, so soft and rich, will make up into such a 
beautiful gown—much too fine for your old mother, 


Hustler Joe 


70 

Jimmie, but I shall be proud of it. Father is already 
quite puffed up with his lovely gold-topped cane. Nellie 
and Mary and Tom and John have divided up the pretty 
ribbons and books and sweetmeats to suit themselves, as 
long as you didn’t single them out by name. (“No—I’m 
blest if I did!” murmured Jim.) We were proud and 
pleased to get the box, Jimmie, both because the things 
were so beautiful and because you thought to send them. 
(“I’ll be hanged if I did!” muttered the hunchback, 
scratching his head in his perplexity.) Why don’t you 
come on East and see us, dear? We wish you would. 

Then followed bits of neighborhood gossip and 
family news, ending with another burst of thanks 
which left Pedler Jim helpless with bewilderment. 

It was that night that Somers was talking in the 
store. 

“Yes, he’s rich—rich as mud, they say, an’ I ain’t 
sorry, neither. There ain’t anyone I know that I’d 
as soon would have a streak o’ luck as Hustler Joe.” 

Pedler Jim was across the room, but he heard. 

“Rich! Hustler Joe rich!” he demanded, spring¬ 
ing to his feet. 

“That’s what he is!” 

“Jiminy Christmas!” shouted the hunchback, 
“I’ve found him—he was the lamp himself!” 


CHAPTER XI 


TT was in Dalton, the nearest large city to Skinner 
Valley, that Hustler Joe began his career as a 
rich man. 

He built him a house—a house so rare and costly 
that people came from miles around to stare and 
wonder. Society not only opened its doors to him, 
but reached out persuasive hands and displayed its 
most alluring charms. She demanded but one thing 
—a new name: “Hustler Joe” could scarcely be 
tolerated in the aristocratic drawing-rooms of the 
inner circle ! He gave her “Westbrook,” and thence¬ 
forth “Mr. Joseph Westbrook” was the power in the 
city. 

He was petted by maneuvering mammas, flattered 
by doting papas, and beamed upon by aspiring 
daughters; yet the firm lips seldom relaxed in a 
smile, and his groom told of long night rides when 
the master would come home in the gray of the 
morning with his horse covered with mud and foam. 
But society cared not. Society loves a Mystery— 
if the Mystery be rich. 

When Joseph Westbrook’s mansion was finished 
and furnished from cellar to garret and placed in the 
hands of a dignified, black-robed housekeeper at the 
head of a corps of servants, and when his stables 
were filled with thoroughbreds and equipped with 
all things needful, from a gold-tipped whip to a 
liveried coachman, Mr. Joseph Westbrook himself 
71 


Hustler Joe 


72 

was as restless and ill at ease as Hustler Joe has been 
in the renovated shanty on the hillside. 

The balls and the dinners—invitations to which 
poured in upon him—he attended in much the same 
spirit that Hustler Joe had displayed in loitering in 
Pedler Jim’s “Emporium”—anywhere to get rid of 
himself. But if the inner man was the same, the 
outer certainly was not; and the well-groomed gen¬ 
tleman of leisure bore little resemblance to the 
miner of a year before. 

On the night of the Charity Ball Westbrook had 
been almost rude in his evasion of various unwel¬ 
come advances, and he now stood in the solitude for 
which he had striven, watching the dancers with 
sombre eyes. Suddenly his face lighted up; but the 
flame that leaped to his eyes was instantly quenched 
by the look of indifference he threw into his counte¬ 
nance. Coming toward him was Ethel Barrington, 
leaning on the arm of her father. 

“Mr. Westbrook,” said the old gentleman genially, 
“my little girl says she is sure she has seen your face 
somewhere, so I have brought her over to renew old 
acquaintance.” 

Someone spoke to John Barrington then, and he 
turned aside, while Westbrook found himself once 
more clasping a slim firm hand, and looking into a 
well-remembered pair of blue eyes. 

“You are—?” 

“Hustler Joe,” he supplied quietly, his eyes never 
leaving her face. 

“I knew it!” she exclaimed, her pleasure frankly 
shown. “I never could forget your face,” she added 
impulsively, then colored in confusion as she realized 
the force of her words. 

But his tactful reply put her immediately at ease, 



The Atonement of Hustler Joe 73 

and they were soon chatting merrily together, closely 
watched by many curious eyes. Society had never 
seen Mr. Joseph Westbrook in just this mood before. 

“Father did not recognize you,” said Ethel, after 
a time. 

“No; I was introduced to Mr. Barrington at the 
Essex Club a week ago. I hardly thought he would 
remember Hustler Joe. You have just returned, 
Miss Barrington ?” 

“A month ago—from Europe, I mean; mother is 
there yet. America looks wonderfully good to me— 
I have been away from it the greater part of the last 
two years, you know. When I came home to Dalton 
I found the name of Mr. Joseph Westbrook on every 
lip. You seem to be a very important personage, 
sir,” she laughed. 

“A little gilding goes a long way, sometimes,” he 
replied, with a bitter smile. 

“But there must have been something to gild!” 
she challenged. “Mr. Westbrook, for the last two 
weeks I have been at The Maples—have you been 
down to Skinner Valley lately?” she asked, with 
peculiar abruptness. 

“Not for some months.” 

“There are some changes in the village.” 

“Yes?” 

“That poor little deformed storekeeper has bought 
the Rotalick house and has turned it into the dearest 
little convalescents’ home imaginable.” 

“Is that so?” murmured Westbrook, meeting Miss 
Barrington’s gaze with a face that was innocently 
noncommittal. “Pedler Jim always was kind to the 
boys.” 

“So it would seem; still—someone must have 


Hustler Joe 


74 

helped him in this,” she suggested, her eyes on his 
again. 

“Do you think so? Possibly! I am wondering, 
Miss Barrington, if we might not find it cooler over 
there by the window. Will you allow me to escort 
you?” 

“Perhaps we might,” she smilingly assented. 
“Perhaps we could find some subject of conversation 
other than Hustler Joe’s generosity to Pedler Jim, 
too—we might try! ” She threw him a merry glance, 
which he answered with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“Indeed, Miss Barrington, you quite overestimate 
anything I may have had to do in the matter. It 
was entirely Pedler Jim’s idea. How about the 
reading-room?” he suddenly asked, mentioning Miss 
Barrington’s latest gift to the miners, “and the 
kindergarten class, and the—” 

“Ah—please!” interrupted the girl, with hand 
upraised in laughing protest. “I acknowledge my¬ 
self vanquished at my own game. I’ll talk about— 
the weather, now, if you like,” she finished dutifully. 

Westbrook laughed, but before he could reply 
Miss Barrington was claimed by a tall young fellow 
for the next dance. 

“I wonder,” he mused as he saw them glide grace¬ 
fully into the waltz—“I wonder if dancing belongs 
to those things one never forgets. I’ll have to brush 
up my old steps—and learn some new ones,” he 
added, after a pause. 

From the night of the Charity Ball the world 
appeared in new colors for Westbrook. He did not 
stop to question the cause of all this change. If 
wealth were lifting her disguise and showing a 
glimpse of peace, he was too rejoiced to ask the 
reason. 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 75 

“I wish you’d come up to the house some time,” 
said John Barrington to Westbrook one evening soon 
after the Charity Ball. “I’d like to talk with you— 
we can’t make any headway in this infernal racket !” 
—the “infernal racket” in question being the high 
C’s and low G’s of some world-famous singers at a 
particularly exclusive musical. 

Westbrook smiled. 

“Thank you; I should be only too happy.” 

“Than call it tomorrow night—to dinner. Seven 
o’clock.” 

“I will—and thank you,” said Westbrook after a 
momentary hesitation. 

To his daughter John Barrington said a little 
later: 

“Oh, I’ve invited Mr. Westbrook up to dinner to¬ 
morrow night.” 

“Mr. Westbrook!” 

“Why, yes—why not? You seem surprised.” 

“Gilding does count, doesn’t it, father dear?” 

“Eh? Gilding? My dear, I don’t know what 
you mean. I know he’s rich as mud—if that’s what 
you’re talking about; but he’s got more than money 
—he’s got brains. He knows as much about mines 
as I do! I like him—he’s worth a dozen of the 
youths that usually flutter about you.” 

“Perhaps he is,” laughed Ethel, the color in her 
cheeks deepening. 

That was but the first of many visits. Barring¬ 
ton was urgent, Ethel charmingly cordial—and 
Westbrook, nothing loth. 


CHAPTER XII 


I ’M in search of a good lawyer,” said Westbrook to 
John Barrington one day. “Can you recom¬ 
mend one to me?” 

“Indeed I can. I have in mind the very man— 
he’s been doing a little work for me, and he is very 
highly spoken of.” 

“That sounds about O. K. Who is he?” 

“That’s just the point,” laughed the older man; 
“the name’s escaped me. He’s from the East—• 
hasn’t been here very long. I’ll tell you what—I’ll 
bring him to your office tomorrow. Will that do?” 
“It will—and thank you.” 

Westbrook’s “office” was something new. A life 
of leisure was becoming wearisome; consequently he 
invested in various bits of real estate, opened an 
office, put a man in charge, and of late had himself 
tended strictly to business, such time as he could 
spare from his social engagements. 

It was into this office that Mr. Barrington came 
one morning accompanied by a short, smooth-faced 
man whose garments were irreproachable in style 
and cut. 

“Ah, Westbrook,” began Barrington, “let me in¬ 
troduce Mr. Martin, of Martin & Gray, the lawyer 
of whom I was telling you yesterday.” 

Again the room and all it contained—save the 
figure of Martin himself—faded from Westbrook’s 
sight, and he saw the New England street with the 
lawyer’s sign in the foreground. The next moment 
76 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 77 

the vision was gone, and he had extended a cordial 
hand. 

‘Tm very glad to meet Mr. Martin,” he said, 
looking the lawyer straight in the eye. 

“Mr. Westbrook—delighted, I’m sure,” murmured 
the little man suavely; then, in a puzzled tone, 
“have I had the honor of meeting you before, Mr. 
Westbrook? There is something familiar about 
you.” 

“Is there?” began Westbrook, but John Barring¬ 
ton interrupted. 

“There, Martin, you’ve hit my case exactly! He’s 
puzzled me a thousand times with a little turn or 
twist that’s like someone I’ve seen. Dash it—who 
is it?” 

“My features must be cast in a common mold,” 
laughed Westbrook, “to remind so many of one they 
know.” 

“Um—ah—well—I shouldn’t want to say quite 
that!” retorted Barrington. “Well, gentlemen,” he 
resumed after a pause, “I’ll leave you to your own 
devices. I’m off—good-morning.” 

“Good morning, and thank you,” replied West¬ 
brook, rising. “I’ve no doubt Mr. Martin will 
prove a credit to your introduction,” he concluded 
as he bowed the elder gentleman out. Then he 
turned to the lawyer and began the business at hand. 

In his own room that night Westbrook carried a 
small mirror close to the light and scrutinized him¬ 
self for some minutes. 

“H’m,” he mused, “hair rather gray for a man not 
yet thirty; still—it looks less like that of a youth of 
twenty.” 


78 Hustler Joe 

He stroked his carefully trimmed beard medita¬ 
tively. 

“Hides the telltale mouth and chin pretty well,” 
he murmured. “Mr. Joseph Westbrook can stay 
where he is for the present, I think.” 

The next evening Westbrook called at the Bar¬ 
ringtons’. He found Ethel and Mr. Martin at the 
piano singing a duet which they continued at his 
solicitation. Then the two musicians drifted into a 
discussion of Martin’s favorite composer, which was 
like a foreign language to Westbrook. 

After a half-hour of this the lawyer took his leave. 
Westbrook drew a long breath, but it was caught and 
stifled in half completion by Miss Barrington’s first 
remark. 

“What a fine voice he has!” 

“Er—yes, very.” 

“And his knowledge of musical matters is most 
unusual, too.” 

“That so?” 

“Yes. He says he wanted to make music his 
profession, but his parents objected; so he took up 
law.” 

“Indeed,” murmured Westbrook without en¬ 
thusiasm. 

“Yes, but he talks of musicians as glibly as though 
he had read Grove as much as Blackstone. I 
haven’t had so good a time discussing my pet com¬ 
posers for many a day.” 

Westbrook stirred restlessly, and his hostess sud¬ 
denly became aware of the hopelessly lost look in 
his eyes. She promptly changed the subject. 

It was the very next day that Mr. Joseph West¬ 
brook appeared in the leading book-store of the city. 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 79 

“I want some lives of musicians,” he announced. 

“I beg pardon ?” 

“Books, I mean—lives of musicians.” 

“Oh, certainly, of course,” apologized the clerk. 
“Which ones?” 

“Why—er—the best ones, to be sure.” West¬ 
brook’s voice faltered at first, but it vibrated with 
the courage of his convictions at the last. 

The clerk suddenly turned his back, and when 
Westbrook next saw his face it was an apologetic 
shade of reddish purple. 

“Certainly, sir. Bach, Beethoven, Handel, Haydn, 
Mendelssohn, Mozart, Chopin-” 

“Yes, yes, put me up one of each,” interrupted 
Westbrook hastily; he was growing suspicious of the 
clerk. He left the store with more dignity than he 
usually displayed. 

The real estate business would have suffered in 
the next few days had it depended entirely upon 
Westbrook, for the greater share of his time was 
spent in poring over the recent addition to his li¬ 
brary. At the end of a month he was sadly en¬ 
tangled in a bewildering maze of fugues, sonatas, 
concertos and symphonies, in which the names of 
Bach, Beethoven, Haydn, Handel, Mendelssohn, 
Mozart and Chopin were hopelessly lost. 


CHAPTER XIII 


W ESTBROOK often met the lawyer at the Bar¬ 
ringtons’ after that first visit. Martin’s mu¬ 
sic and Martin’s voice seemed to be unfailing at¬ 
tractions in the eyes of Miss Barrington. Westbrook 
studied his “lives” assiduously, but only once did he 
venture to take any part in the discussions of com¬ 
posers which were so frequent between Miss Bar¬ 
rington and the lawyer. That once was sufficient 
to show him how hopeless was the task he hafl set 
for himself; and ever after he kept a discreet silence 
on the subject of music and all that pertained there¬ 
to. 

As the winter passed, Westbrook was seen more 
and more frequently in the company of Miss Bar¬ 
rington. His eye had lost its gloom and his step 
had gained a new springiness. Just why, West¬ 
brook did not stop to consider. Indeed, the con¬ 
sidering of anything was what the man most wished 
to avoid. 

It was on a beautiful morning in May that he 
asked Miss Barrington to drive with him. The air 
that brushed his cheek was laden with the fragrance 
of green-growing things, and the girl at his side 
never seemed so altogether lovely. He let the reins 
loosen in his hands as he settled back for an hour of 
unalloyed enjoyment. 

“I am particularly glad to take this ride today,” 
remarked Miss Barrington, smiling into his eyes, 
so 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 81 

“for, as I go away tomorrow, I may not have another 
opportunity of enjoying one at present.’' 

“What?” demanded Westbrook, suddenly sitting 
upright. 

“I merely said I was going away tomorrow,” she 
returned merrily, picking out with intuitive skill 
that portion of her remark which had so startled 
him. Then something in his face made her add— 
“for the summer, you know.” 

Westbrook pulled the reins taut and snapped the 
whip sharply. Going away! Of course; why not? 
What of it? Yes, what of it, indeed! Long days 
fraught with sudden emptiness loomed up before 
him and stretched on into weeks devoid of charm. 
He understood it all now—and he a felon! He 
could hear a girl’s voice saying, “I knew you were 
a good man the first minute I saw your face! ” Un¬ 
consciously he shrank into the comer of the car¬ 
riage, and was only brought to a realization of his 
action by a voice—amused, yet slightly piqued— 
saying: 

“Really, Mr. Westbrook, I hardly expected so 
simple a statement would render you speechless!” 

“Speechless? No, oh, no—certainly not! I beg 
your pardon, I’m sure,” he said, talking very fast. 
“You’re going away, you tell me. It is needless to 
assure you that we shall all miss you very much. 
Where do you go, if I may ask—and how long are 
you to remain?” And he turned to her with eyes so 
full of misery that she could scarcely believe she had 
heard his words aright. 

Before she could answer there came the wild, irre¬ 
gular clattering of unguided horses’ feet. West¬ 
brook turned quickly to see two frightened animals 
rushing toward them dragging a swaying empty car- 


82 


Hustler Joe 


riage. By a swift and skilful turn he just escaped 
the collision, but Ethel Barrington felt the hot 
breath of the beasts as they flew past. In another 
moment their own startled horse had dashed after 
the runaways with speed scarcely less than their 
own. 

Westbrook brought all his great strength to bear, 
then—the right rein snapped. The horse swerved 
sharply, throwing the man to his knees. The next 
moment he was crawling cautiously, but rapidly, 
over the dashboard on to the thill, then to the back 
of the frightened animal, where he could grasp the 
dangling broken reins. One strong pull, and the 
horse stopped so suddenly that the man shot over 
her head to the ground; but he did not relax his 
hold, and the trembling animal stood conquered. 

Westbrook turned to look into the shining eyes of 
the girl, who had leaped from the carriage and come 
close to his side. 

“Oh, that was wonderful! But—my God! I 
thought you’d be killed,” she cried, holding out two 
trembling hands, then sinking to the ground and 
sobbing out her nervousness and relief. 

The man looked down at her with yearningly 
tender eyes. Involuntarily he extended his hand as 
though to caress the bowed head; but he drew back 
shuddering—that hand had forfeited all right to such 
a touch. The look in her eyes had thrilled him to 
his finger-tips, but it as quickly stabbed him with 
the revelation that not he alone would suffer. 

“Miss Barrington, don’t, I beg of you,” he said 
finally, in a voice that was stern with self-control. 
“You are completely unnerved—and no wonder.” 
Then he continued more gently, “But see—Firefly 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 83 

is quiet now. Will you dare to drive home behind 
her if I can manage somehow to mend the reins?” 

A vivid color flamed in the girl’s cheeks and she 
rose unsteadily to her feet. 

“Yes, indeed,” she asserted, forcing her trembling 
lips to speak firmly. “I am ashamed of myself. I 
hope you will pay no attention to my babyishness, 
Mr. Westbrook.” 

“You were not babyish, Miss Barrington,” ob¬ 
jected Westbrook gravely; “on the contrary you 
were very brave.” But as he helped her into the 
carriage he averted his eyes and refused to meet her 
questioning gaze. 

All the way home Ethel Barrington talked with a 
nervous volubility quite unlike herself. Westbrook 
made an effort to meet her brilliant sallies with 
something like an adequate return, but after two or 
three dismal failures he gave it up and lapsed into a 
gloomy silence broken only by an occasional short 
reply. 

“I expect my friends will come this evening to say 
good-bye—I shall see you, shall I not?” she asked 
gaily as she gave him her hand in alighting at her 
own door. 

Before Westbrook realized what the question fully 
was, he had murmured, “Yes, certainly”; but when 
he drove away he was muttering, “Fool, what possi¬ 
ble good can it be to you now? Just suppose she 
knew you for what you are?” 

Ethel entered her door and slowly climbed the 
stairs to her room. 

“He cares; I know he does!” she exclaimed under 

her breath. “But why—why couldn’t he-?” 

Then the conscious red, that was yet half in pique, 



84 Hustler Joe 

flamed into her cheeks and she shrugged her shoul¬ 
ders disdainfully. 

When Westbrook called that night she gave him a 
gracious hand and looked frankly into his eyes with 
the inward determination to “have no more non¬ 
sense^; but her eyelids quickly fell before his level 
gaze and she felt the telltale color burning in her 
cheeks. She was relieved when her father broke the 
awkward silence. 

“Well, Westbrook, we shall miss you—we’ve got 
so we depend upon seeing you about once in so often. 
We shall be in Skinner Valley in August. You must 
plan to run down to The Maples and make us a 
visit. I should like to show you the mines.” 

“Thank you,” replied Westbrook, glancing toward 
the door and, for the first time in his life, welcoming 
the appearance of Martin. 

Martin advanced, smilingly sure of his welcome, 
nor did he notice that Miss Barrington’s greeting 
was a shade less cordial than usual. His coming 
was the signal for the adjournment to th,e music- 
room, and there Westbrook sat with clouded eyes 
and unheeding ears while the air about him rang 
with melody. After a time he was conscious that 
the music had stopped and that Ethel was speaking. 

“I think I never heard of anything so horrible!” 
she said. 

From Martin’s next words Westbrook gathered 
that they were talking of a particularly atrocious 
murder that had been committed in the city the 
night before. Then the girl spoke again, her voice 
vibrating with feeling. 

“Oh, but Mr. Martin—only think of a human 
being fiendish enough to attack his own son!” 

Westbrook tried to rouse himself, to speak, to 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 85 

move; but he seemed bound by invisible cords. His 
head was turned away from the speakers, but he saw 
their reflection in the mirror facing him, and he no¬ 
ticed that the .lawyer’s gaze was fixed across the room 
upon himself with a peculiar intentness as he said: 

“Yes, incredible, I grant, Miss Barrington; and 
yet, in a little New England town of my acquaint¬ 
ance a boy of twenty shot down his own father in 
cold blood at their own fireside.” 

“Oh, don’t, Mr. Martin—the human fiend!” shud¬ 
dered Ethel. 

The lawyer’s eyes did not waver; a strange light 
was coming into them. 

“A human fiend, indeed,” he repeated softly, half 
rising from his chair. 

Something seemed to snap in Westbrook’s brain, 
and he forced himself to his feet. 

“Your music set me to day-dreaming,” he began, 
with a smile as he crossed the room, “and your 
creepy murder stories awoke me to a realization that 
the sweet sounds had stopped. Come”— he looked 
straight into Martin’s eyes—“sometime you may tell 
me more of this gruesome tale—I am interested in 
studies of human nature. No doubt you meet with 
many strange experiences in your business; but now 
I want you to sing ‘Calvary’ for me. Will you, 
please? Then I must go.” 

Martin rose to his feet with a puzzled frown on 
his face as he picked up a sheet of music from the 
piano. 

“Thank you,” said Westbrook, when the song was 
finished. Then he turned to Ethel with extended 
hand. “I hope you will have a pleasant summer,” 
he said in stilted politeness. 

“You are very kind. Shall I wish you the same?” 


86 


Hustler Joe 


Her voice and her fingers were icy. Her pride was 
touched, and she expressed no hope as to their future 
meeting, and certainly Westbrook dared not. He 
left the house with a heart that was bitterly re¬ 
bellious, and the blackness outside seemed to him 
symbolical of his own despair. 

That night, and for long nights afterward, he rode 
over the hills outside the city. Little by little his 
life dropped back into the old rut. All the new 
warmth and brightness faded with the) going of 
Miss Barrington, and he threw himself into business 
with a zeal that quickly brought “Westbrook & 
Company” into the front rank and filled his purse 
with yet greater wealth—wealth which he had come 
to hate, and for which he had no use. 


CHAPTER XIV 


O NE morning, long after sunrise, Westbrook en¬ 
tered the outskirts of the city and allowed his 
tired beast to slow to a walk. In one of the poorest 
streets of the tenement district he saw a white-faced 
woman, a group of half a dozen puny children and a 
forlorn heap of clothing and furniture. He was off 
his horse in a moment, and a few kindly questions 
brought out the information that they had been 
evicted for arrears in rent amounting to thirty 
dollars because the woman had been too ill to work. 
He straightway paid the sleek little agent not only 
the amount due, but also a year’s rent in advance 
and rode away, followed by a volley of thanks and 
blessings from the woman. He did not know that 
Martin was the landlord and that he came out of 
the tenement in time to hear the details of the inci¬ 
dent fresh from his agent. 

As Westbrook turned the corner of the dingy 
street a curious elation took possession of him. How 
the sun shone—how exhilarating the air was! How 
his heart beat in tune with it all! What was this 
new joy that seemed almost to choke and suffocate 
him? Was this the shadow of peace at last? 

He threw the reins to the groom with so beaming 
a smile that the man scratched his head meditatively 
for a full half-minute. 

“Faith, an’ what’s got into the master?” he mut¬ 
tered as he led the horse to the stable. 

87 


88 Hustler Joe 

In the days that followed society was treated to a 
new sensation—the Mystery had turned into a Phi¬ 
lanthropist. A school, a library and a hospital were 
under way in a wonderfully short time. Did West¬ 
brook hear of anyone wanting anything—from a 
toy to a piano or a dinner to an education—he 
promptly bought and presented it. The result was 
disastrous. There came a constant stream of beg¬ 
gars to his door, varying from those in rags asking 
a nickel to bank presidents demanding a million— 
for “investment,” of course; furthermore, he was 
obliged to hire two private secretaries to attend to 
his mail. 

In August came a cordial note from Mr. Bar¬ 
rington inviting him to The Maples for a two weeks’ 
visit. The stiffly worded refusal which Westbrook 
despatched by return mail threw John Barrington 
into a state of puzzled dissatisfaction, and John Bar¬ 
rington’s daughter into a feeling of unreasoning 
anger against the world in general and Joseph West¬ 
brook in particular. The anger was not less when, 
two months later, Westbrook called on the Bar¬ 
ringtons just four weeks after they had come up to 
their town residence in Dalton. 

It was not a pleasant call. Westbrook was stilted, 
Mr. Barrington plainly ill at ease, and Ethel, the 
personification of chill politeness; yet she became 
cordiality itself when Martin appeared a little later. 
She chatted and laughed with the lawyer and sent 
merry shafts of wit across the room to Westbrook 
and her father. But when Westbrook had gone she 
lapsed into bored indifference and monosyllables. 

Mr. Barrington was called from the room after a 
time, leaving his daughter and Martin alone. The 
lawyer broached subject after subject with unvary- 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 89 

ing ill success, even music itself failing to awaken 
more than a passing interest. At last he said 
abruptly: 

“Queer chap—that Westbrook!” 

“Queer? Why?” almost snapped Miss Barring¬ 
ton. 

Martin raised his eyebrows. 

“How can you ask?” he returned. “You’ve seen 
him—you know him!” 

Miss Barrington gave the lawyer a swift glance. 
Just what did he mean? Had he noticed the change 
in Westbrook’s manner—his indifference—his cold¬ 
ness? Did he think that she-? 

“Indeed, yes, Mr. Martin, I do know him— 
slightly, perhaps; but ‘queer’ is not the adjective I 
would have applied to him.” 

The lawyer leaned forward. 

“Miss Barrington, what do you know of him? 
Did it ever occur to you how very little any of us 
know of this man?” 

The lady stirred uneasily. 

“Really, Mr. Martin, I know him for a gentleman, 
as you do—I might also add that he is quite a noted 
philanthropist, of late,” she added teasingly. 

“ ‘Philanthropist!’ ” scoffed the lawyer. 

Miss Barrington’s manner instantly changed. 

“Mr. Westbrook is doing a world of good with his 
money; I admire him for it,” she said with decision. 

“Oh, of course,” returned the man smoothly. 
“Still, I wonder why—this sudden generosity!” 

“Sudden? It’s a long time since I first heard of 
Mr. Westbrook’s good deeds, Mr. Martin,” replied 
Miss Barrington, a vision of Pedler Jim and his hos¬ 
pital rising before her eyes. 

“H’m-m,” murmured the lawyer, his level gaze on 



Hustler Joe 


90 

her face, “you knew him before, perhaps—this man 
they—er—call 'Westbrook/ ” 

The lady sprang to her feet and crossed the room 
to the piano. 

“Oh, fie, Mr. Lawyer!” she laughed nervously. 
“I’m no poor victim on the witness stand. Come— 
let’s try this duet.” 

The man followed her and leaned his elbow on the 
piano, but he did not pick up the music nor take his 
eyes from her face. 

“You have known him before, then—under his 
other name, of course,” he hazarded. 

A swift red came into Ethel’s cheeks. 

“Perhaps—perhaps not! I really do not care to 
discuss it.” And she wheeled around upon the 
piano-stool and dashed into the prelude of the duet. 

Martin waited until her hands had glided into the 
soft ripple of the accompaniment. 

“Then you, of all people, Miss Barrington,” he 
began again, “should know that this philanthropic 
mummery is nothing but a salve for his conscience. 
Admirable, I’m sure!” 

The music stopped with a crash. 

“What do you mean?” she demanded. “I don’t 
know what you are talking about, with your miser¬ 
able innuendoes.” 

Martin’s face paled. 

“Innuendoes!” he burst out, losing his temper; 
“then I’ll speak plainly, since you demand it! Since 
when, Miss Barrington, have you made a practice of 
shielding—murderers?” 

He regretted the word the instant it had left his 
lips, but he forced himself to meet Miss Barring¬ 
ton’s horrified gaze unflinchingly. 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 91 

“Murderer!” she gasped. “Hustler Joe was no 
murderer!” 

At that moment Mr. Barrington re-entered the 
room and Martin turned to him in relief. Five min¬ 
utes later he had made his adieus and left the house. 


CHAPTER XV 


M URDERER! 

Ethel fled to her room and locked the door, 
but the word laughed at bolts and bars. It looked 
from the walls and the pictures and peeped at her 
from the pages of the book she tried to read. She 
opened the window and gazed up at the stars, but 
they, too, knew the hated word and spelled it out in 
twinkling points of light. 

Murderer? 

Ah, no, it could not be—and yet—— 

Away back in Ethel's memory was a picture of 
the Deerfield Woods that skirted the lawn at The 
Maples. She saw the tall, grave-faced miner and 
the imperious girl, and even now the words rang in 
hear ears—“I'm not the good man you think, Miss 
Barrington!" Half-forgotten tales of “Hustler 
Joe's queerness" came to her, too, and assumed an 
appearance of evil. 

And was this to be the explanation of that ride 
—that ride on which she had almost betrayed her¬ 
self only to be met by stern words of convention¬ 
ality? Was this the meaning of the infrequent calls, 
the averted face, the eyes so misery-laden if by 
chance they met her own? 

A murderer? 

“Ah, no, no! He was so good—so kind—so brave! 
There were Pedler Jim, the miners whose lives he 
had saved, and the multitudes of the city's poor to 
92 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 93 

give the lie to so base a charge; and yet—Martin 
had said that these very benefactions were but a 
lullaby to a guilty conscience. 

The night brought Ethel no relief. The dark was 
peopled with horrid shapes; and sleep, when it came, 
was dream-haunted and unrefreshing. In the morn¬ 
ing, weary and heavy-eyed, she awoke to a day of 
restless wandering from room to room. Twenty- 
four hours later her trunk was packed and she was 
on her way to The Maples. 

It was at about this time that Westbrook’s phi¬ 
lanthropy took a new turn. He began to spend long 
hours in the city prison while society looked on and 
shuddered disdainful shoulders. The striped-garbed 
creatures behind the bars seemed to possess a pecu¬ 
liar fascination for him. He haunted their habita¬ 
tion daily, yet he never failed to shudder at every 
clang of the iron doors. 

Particularly was he kind to those outcasts from 
human sympathy—the murderers. So far did he 
carry this branch of his charity that the authorities 
ventured to remonstrate with the great man one day, 
telling him that he was putting a premium on the 
horrible crime. They never forgot the look that 
came over the beneficent Mr. Joseph Westbrook’s 
face as he turned and walked away. 

It was on that night that the servants said he sat 
up until morning in his library, raging around the 
room like some mad creature, so that they were all 
afraid, and one came and listened at the door. There 
he heard his master cry out: 

“My God—is it not enough? Is there no atone¬ 
ment—no peace?” Then there was a long quivering 
sigh, and a noise as of a clinched hand striking the 


94 Hustler Joe 

desk, and a low muttered, “Oh, the pitiless God of 
Justice!” 

In the morning Westbrook left the house before 
breakfast and boarded the eight o’clock train for 
Skinner Valley. 


CHAPTER XVI 


\\7ESTBR00K had gone back to Skinner Valley 

* * for a talk with Pedler Jim, having it in his 
mind to tell the little hunchback his life story as that 
of a friend of his and so get the benefit of sound 
advice without quite betraying his secret. But the 
door opened suddenly and Bill Somers burst into 
the store. 

“There’s another blow-up at the mine!” he gasped 
thickly. “An’ the old man’s daughter—she-” 

“What old man’s daughter?” demanded West¬ 
brook, his lips white. 

“She—Barrington’s girl—is down there in that 
hell! She went in with her friends at two o’clock. 
They-•” 

“Which entrance?” thundered Westbrook, with 
his hand on the door. 

“Beachmont! They-” 

Westbrook dashed down the steps and across the 
sidewalk, slipped out his knife and cut loose a horse 
from the shafts of a wagon in front of the store. The 
next moment he had mounted the animal and was 
urging it into a mad run toward the Beachmont 
entrance of the Candria mine. 

Again did he face a crowd of weeping women and 
children crazed with terror; but this time there stood 
among them the bowed form of the great mine-king 
himself. John Barrington’s lips were stern and set, 
and only his eyes spoke as he grasped Westbrook’s 
hand. 


95 



Hustler Joe 


96 

Once more did a band of heroic men work their 
way bit by bit into the mine, fighting the damp at 
every turn under Westbrook's directions. 

Barrington had looked at the preparations in 
amazement. 

“How comes it that this Westbrook, this million¬ 
aire, knows the mine so well?" he stammered. 

A woman standing near him—Bill Somer’s wife— 
answered him. 

“That's Hustler Joe, sir," she said softly. 

Hustler Joe! John Barrington drew a deep breath 
as the memories of the Bonanza catastrophe came to 
him. 

“Thank God for Hustler Joe!" he breathed fer¬ 
vently. “If anyone can save my little girl, 'tis he!" 

“You’re right, sir—an’ he'll do it, too," returned 
the little woman, her eyes full of unshed tears. 


CHAPTER XVII 


S LOWLY, so slowly, the rescuers worked their way 
into the mine. One by one the unconscious 
forms of the miners were borne back to fresh air 
and safety. But no trace could be found of Miss 
Barrington and her band of sightseers. 

At last, far down a gallery, Westbrook heard a 
faint cry. With an answering shout of reassurance 
he dashed ahead of the others and came face to face 
with Ethel Barrington. 

“You!” she cried. 

“Yes, yes; you’re not hurt?” 

She shook her head and leaned heavily against the 
wall. The reaction was making her head swim. 

“And your friends?” 

“Here”—she pointed to the ground almost at her 
feet. “They’re not hurt—they fainted.” 

Stalwart miners poured into the narrow chamber 
and lifted the prostrate forms, leaving Westbrook 
with Miss Barrington. That young lady still leaned 
against the wall. 

“I—we should be going; can you—let me help 
you,” stammered Westbrook. 

“Oh, I can walk,” she laughed nervously, making 
a vain attempt to steady her limbs as she moved 
slowly away from her support. 

Westbrook caught her outstretched hand and 
passed his disengaged arm around her waist. 

“Miss Barrington, you’re quite unnerved,” he 
said, his voice suddenly firm. “Pardon me, but you 
97 


Hustler Joe 


98 

must accept my assistance.” And he half carried, 
half led her down the long gallery, at the end of 
which they could hear the steps and voices of their 
companions. 

All the misery of the last few days fled from 
Ethel’s mind. She was conscious only of the 
strength and bravery and tenderness of the man at 
her side. Martin’s hated words became as phantoms 
of a past existence. 

“You—you haven’t told me how you came to be 
here today, Mr. Westbrook,” she began again, a little 
hysterically. “I thought you were in Dalton.” 

“I came down this morning,” he said. Then added 
softly, “Thank God!” 

Ethel was silent for a moment. When she spoke 
again her voice shook. 

“As usual, Mr. Westbrook—you are near when I 
need you! If I am ever in danger again, I shall 
promptly look for you. Now see that you do not 
disappoint me!” she added with assumed playful¬ 
ness, trying to hide her depth of feeling. 

They had almost reached the turn when a distant 
rumble and vibrating crash shook the walls about 
them, throwing Westbrook and Miss Barrington to 
the ground. It was some time before the man could 
stagger to his feet and help his companion to stand 
upright. 

“What—what was it?” she gasped. 

Westbrook advanced two steps only to come 
sharply against a wall of earth and timbers. 

“My God—the roof is fallen!” he cried. 

She came close to his side. 

“Then there was another explosion?” 

“Yes,” 

“But they will find us?” 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 99 


“That wall may be-” he stopped abruptly. 

“Many feet in thickness, I know/' she supplied. 

“And the damp—if it should enter the gallery 
from the rear—his voice choked into silence. 

“I know—I understand. But we are together!” 
She laid her hand on his arm. 

He caught the hand and held it in both his own, 
then slowly raised it and laid the soft palm against 
his lips. 

“Ethel—Ethel—may God forgive me!” he whis¬ 
pered brokenly. 

She swayed dizzily, and he caught and held her 
close. 

“I—I think I am going to faint,” she murmured. 

His arms tightened their clasp and her head 
drooped until it lay in the hollow of his shoulder. 

“Ethel, darling—only one little word! Ah, sweet¬ 
heart—Eve loved you so!” 

She raised her hand and just touched his cheek 
with her fingers, then let her arm fall about his 
neck. His head bent low and his lips closed over 
hers as she drew a long, quivering sigh. 

“May God forgive me,” he breathed, “but ’tis the 
end—the end!” 



CHAPTER XVIII 


W HEN Ethel Barrington regained consciousness 
she was in her own bed at The Maples, but it 
was full two days after that before they let her ask 
questions that so often came to her lips. It was 
her father who finally answered her. 

“Yes, dear, you were unconscious when the miners 
found you. Westbrook could barely speak. Why, 
girlie, when that second crash came and the miners 
realized that Hustler Joe—as they insist upon call¬ 
ing that remarkable man—was himself imprisoned, 
they swarmed into the mine like ants and attacked 
the fallen wall like madmen! Those that had no 
pickaxe clawed at the dirt and stones with their 
naked fingers!” 

“And—Mr. Westbrook?” 

“Is all right and has been here every day to in¬ 
quire for you and to bring you these,” replied Mr. 
Barrington, with a wave of his hand toward the 
sumptuous red roses on the table. 

The girl’s eyes lingered on the flowers and her 
cheeks suddenly glowed with a reflection of their 
vivid color. 

“He is very kind,” she murmured as she turned 
her face away. 

For a week Westbrook and his roses made daily 
calls. At the end of that time it was reported to him 
that Miss Barrington was feeling quite like herself. 
The next morning Westbrook did not appear, but his 
roses came in charge of a boy together with a note 
for Miss Barrington. 


100 


The Atonement of Hustler Joe 101 


The missive bore no date, no salutation, but 
plunged at once into its message. 

That I should address you at all is an insult, but my 
cowardly weakness when we were last together makes it 
a greater insult for me to keep silence now. I have 
waited until you were quite recovered before giving you 
this, for I know that it will give you pain—and that it 
will give you pain is at once my greatest curse and my 
greatest joy. That I should have dared to love you is 
despicable, but that I should have allowed you to give 
me even one tender thought in return is dastardly—and 
yet, nothing in heaven or hell can take from me the 
ecstasy of that one moment when your dear lips met 
mine! 

Forgive me—think kindly of me if you can, for—God 
help me—I am going away, never to look on your face 
again. I was a boy of twenty when I committed the 
sin against God and man that has made my life a thing 
of horror. For years I have sought for peace; adven¬ 
ture, work, wealth, philanthropy—each alike has failed 
to bring it. I am going now to my boyhood’s home to 
receive my just punishment. 

Ah, Ethel, Ethel, my lost love—what can I say to you? 
I have but words—words—empty words! I can see the 
horror in your dear eyes. I am not worthy of even the 
thought of you, and yet, my darling, oh, my darling, 
were it not for this dread shadow on my life, I swear I 
would win you for my darling in very truth! 

But now—God help me—farewell! 

“Poor fellow! He would not sign Westbrook’ and 
he would not sign—the other.” 

Much to John Barrington’s amazement, his daugh¬ 
ter insisted upon going to town on the noon train 
that day. In response to his persistent objections 
she assured him that she felt “perfectly well and 
quite equal to a journey around the world, if 
necessary.” 


102 


Hustler Joe 


At four o’clock Lawyer Martin was surprised by 
an urgent note summoning him to the Barringtons’ 
Dalton residence on Howard Avenue. Half an hour 
afterward he was ushered into the presence of Miss 
Barrington herself. 

The interview was short, sharp and straight to the 
point. A few hours later Miss Barrington and her 
maid boarded the eight o’clock express for the East. 


CHAPTER XIX 


T WENTY-FOUR hours had passed after West¬ 
brook had sent his letter to Miss Barrington 
before he could so arrange his affairs as to start for 
the little New England village of his boyhood. All 
day and all night he had worked with feverish haste, 
and the time had flown on wings of the wind; now, 
when he was at last on the morning “Limited,” the 
hours seemed to drag as though weighted with lead. 

He could see it all—the proud new name he had 
made for himself dragged low in the dust. He knew 
just how society would wonder and surmise; just 
how the maneuvering mammas would shake then- 
skirts in virtuous indignation and how the doting 
papas would nod their heads in congratulation over 
a miraculous escape. 

He knew how the poor and friendless in the great 
city would first deny the charge, then weep over the 
truth. He knew, too, the look that would come to 
the faces of the miners, and he winced at the thought 
of this—Hustler Joe had prized his place in the 
hearts of his miner friends. 

There was one on whom he dared not let his 
thoughts rest for a moment; yet it was that one’s 
face which seemed ever before his eyes, and it was 
that one’s voice which constantly rang in his ears. 

Again the sun had set and it was twilight in the 
little New England village. The street had not 
103 


104 Hustler Joe 

changed much—the houses were grayer and the trees 
taller, perhaps. 

As he neared the familiar gate, he saw in the win¬ 
dow the face of a silver-haired woman. Was that 
his mother—his dearly beloved mother of long ago?< 
She turned her head and he was answered. 

After all, would it not be better to pass on and 
away again, rather than to bow that gray head once 
more in grief and shame? 

His steps lagged and he almost passed the gate. 
Then he drew a long breath, turned sharply, strode 
up the path and pulled the bell. 

The sweet-faced woman opened the door. The 
man’s dry lips parted, but no sound came, for from 
an inner room advanced Ethel Barrington with a 
gray-haired man whose kindly face wore a strangely 
familiar smile. 

“What is it, wife? Is it—Paul?” he asked in 
tremulous tones. 


EPILOGUE 


I T was long hours afterward that Paul Joseph Wes¬ 
ton sat with Ethel alone in the library. 

“But yourself, dear—you have not told me yet 
how you came to be here/’ he said. 

She laughed softly. 

“Rash boy! Was there not need of someone’s pre¬ 
paring your father and mother for so wonderful a 
home-coming? I found out by judicious inquiry 
that you had not yet left the city, so I knew, when I 
took the train, that I had at least a few hours start 
of you.” 

“But how—what—how could you, dear? Surely 
I didn’t tell-” 

Again she laughed, but this time she dimpled into 
a rosy blush. 

“When your very disquieting letter came, sir, I 
remembered something Mr. Martin had once said 
to me. I went to town, sent for Mr. Martin and 
insisted upon his telling me all that he knew of— 
your youth.” 

“And that was?” 

“That he believed you to be Paul Weston, who 
had quarreled with his father and run away after 
apparently killing the poor gentleman. Mr. Martin 
said that the father did not die, but slowly recovered 
from his wound and made every possible effort to 
find his son, even sending Martin himself to seek for 
him. Once Martin traced the boy to a mining camp, 
but there he lost the trail and never regained it until 
105 



106 Hustler Joe 

he thought he saw Paul Weston’s features in Joseph 
Westbrook’s face.” 

“Ethel, what did Martin first tell you of me that 
caused you to go to him for aid?” 

“He hinted that you were a—ah, don’t make me 
say it^please! ” 

The man’s face grew stem. 

“And he knew all the time it was false!” he cried. 

She put a soft finger on his tense lips. 

“We just won’t think of him—and really, I’ve for¬ 
given him long ago, for it was he that helped me in 
the end, you know. Besides, he acknowledged that 
he didn’t really suppose you were Paul Weston. I 
—I fancy he didn’t want me to think too highly of 
this interesting Mr. Joseph Westbrook!” she added 
saucily. 

The arm that held her tightened its clasp. 

“He needn’t have worried,” she continued, with 
uptilted chin. “I shall never, never marry Mr. 
Joseph Westbrook!” 

“Ethel!” 

“But if Hustler Joe or Paul Weston should 
ask-” 

Her lips were silenced by a kiss and a fervent, 
“You little fraud of a sweetheart!” 


II: TANGLED 


II: TANGLED 

CHAPTER I 

I T was a distinct annoyance to Mrs. Charles 
Martingale to write a letter; hence she did it 
but seldom—annoyances and Molly Martingale 
were not on intimate terms. When Caroline San¬ 
derson wrote, however, that she was about to make 
her home in Hampdon, Mrs. Martingale suddenly 
bethought herself of a childhood’s friend also in 
Hampdon—rich, socially prominent, and with a 
highly eligible son. 

What more altogether delightful than that Paul 
Carew should eventually have the handling of the 
Sanderson millions? At all events, it would be 
pleasant for Caroline to know Mrs. Jack Carew and 
her good-looking son, even should nothing come of 
it, decided Mrs. Martingale; and it was then that 
she crossed to her desk and took out her note-paper. 

The letter was not long, but it covered four pages, 
so coarse was the penmanship. When it left Mrs. 
Martingale’s hands, it was intended by its writer to 
be read thus: 

First page of note paper . 

My Dear Nell: 

Surprised at a letter from me, aren t you? I m a poor 
correspondent, I know, but a young friend of mme as 
moved to your town, and I want you to call and be nice 
to her. She is Caroline Sanderson, of a fine family, rich, 
an orphan, and, you’ll say, a bit spoiled. 

109 


110 


Hustler Joe 


Third page of note paper. 

I don’t know very much about her except that, but I 
knew and loved her mother years ago. I fancy you’ll 
be quick and see the possibilities of the situation, how¬ 
ever, as you have a marriageable son on your hands. 
By the way, is Paul at home now? 


Second page of note paper. 

Caroline has with her, Barbara, her Uncle John’s 
daughter, and has taken a house—I enclose address— 
installing an aunt, a Mrs. Chetwood, I believe, as 
chaperon. Barbara Sanderson is distractingly pretty 
and wins every masculine heart, poor though she is. 


Fourth page of note paper. 

I was interrupted just here, my dear, but after all, I 
had about finished. Oh, one thing, however. I have just 
learned something that will keep your “possibilities” 
from ever becoming probabilities—she’s engaged! It’s 
a secret, so don’t tell. 

Very lovingly, 

Molly. 

This was what Mrs. Martingale had intended to 
say; but when Helen Carew in Hampdon read the 
letter, it’s message was quite different. Molly Mar¬ 
tingale never troubled to number pages, and she had 
a habit of skipping about on the sheet as the whim 
of the moment dictated. In this letter she had begun 
on the first page, turned the leaf and covered the 
third, intending to go back to the second and write 
lengthwise from the bottom to the top. When that 
page was reached, however, she forgot, and still 
wrote from side to side; then turned, and finished 
on the fourth. 


Tangled ill 

To Helen Carew, a letter that skipped about was 
an abomination; but when this one came, with no 
hated lengthwise writing to mar the symmetry of 
the pages, she had no hesitation in reading straight 
through from the first word to the last. So, to her, 
the letter read thus: 

My Dear Nell: 

Surprised at a letter from me, aren’t you? I’m a poor 
correspondent, I know, but a young friend of mine has 
moved to your town, and I want you to call and be nice 
to her. She is Caroline Sanderson, of a fine family, rich, 
an orphan, and, you’ll say, a bit spoiled. 

Caroline has with her, Barbara, her Uncle John’s 
daughter, and has taken a house—I enclose address— 
installing an aunt, a Mrs. Chetwood, I believe, as chap¬ 
eron. Barbara Sanderson is distractingly pretty and 
wins every masculine heart, poor though she is. 

I don’t know very much about her except that, but 
I knew and loved her mother years ago. I fancy you’ll 
be quick to see the possibilities of the situation, how¬ 
ever, as you have a marriageable son on your hands. 
By the way, is Paul at home now? 

I was interrupted just here, my dear, but after all I 
had about finished. Oh, one thing, however, I have just 
learned something that will keep your “possibilities” 
from ever becoming probabilities—she’s engaged! It’s a 
secret, so don’t tell. 

Very lovingly, 

Molly. 

“Hm-m/’ murmured Mrs. Jack Carew, as she 
folded the letter, not realizing that it was her 
blunder of mixing the pages that had caused the 
“possibilities” to refer to Barbara instead of to Caro¬ 
line. Thus Barbara was reported to be engaged 
when it should have been Caroline. 

“Hm-m”; repeated Mrs. Carew, this time with a 
smile, “up to her match-making, as usual! As if I 


112 


Hustler Joe 

couldn’t read between the lines, particularly when 
she openly warns me against the impecunious Bar¬ 
bara, and then assures me in the next breath that, 
after all, I needn’t worry, for the fascinating young 
woman is already spoken for!” 

Mrs. Carew always talked to herself when she was 
interested, and she was very much interested just 
now. 

“And it would be a good thing—a fine thing,” she 
continued, nodding her head gently. “I’ve heard of 
this Caroline Sanderson. Dick Bartlett saw her a 
year ago in Paris, and if she’s anything as he made 
her out, she ought to be able to stir Paul from his 
indifference; if she does do it, it’ll be more than any 
other girl ever did.” 

“What’s more than any other girl ever did,” in¬ 
quired an amused voice from the doorway. 

“Paul!” exclaimed Mrs. Carew. “How you 
startled me!” 

The man laughed and entered the room. 

“My dear mother, if you will carry on a whole 
afternoon-tea all by yourself, what can you expect?” 

“Did you—hear?” she demanded. 

“Only the last few words,” he laughed. “I’m look¬ 
ing for a book,” he added, as he moved leisurely 
around the room. “I think I left it here last night.” 

“Oh!” said his mother; and fell to watching him 
with fond eyes. 

She noted the tall, powerfully built figure, the 
well-set head, the firm mouth and the determined, 
smooth-shaven chin. Now, as often before, it came 
to her that, in his presence, her spindle-legged sofas 
and fragile vases appeared absurd; his virile person¬ 
ality seemed to demand Morris chairs and bronze 
statues. From stand to table, and from table to 


Tangled 113 

piano she watched him. She knew quite well where 
the book was, but she would not say; it merely was 
one way to keep this big, stalwart son of hers as long, 
as possible before her adoring eyes. 


CHAPTER II 


N OT many days after the arrival of Molly Mar¬ 
tingale’s letter, Mrs. Jack Carew’s victoria 
stopped at the door of the house Caroline Sanderson 
had taken for the winter. 

“It might be well/’ mused Mrs. Carew, as she 
ascended the steps, a to be a bit wary of this fas¬ 
cinating Barbara, even though she is engaged. En¬ 
gagements are brittle things sometimes—and this 
might be one of the times!” 

Mrs. Chetwood received the visitor with marked 
cordiality, and introduced her two nieces with a vain 
attempt at hiding her joy over this gracious attention 
from Mrs. Jack Carew. 

Was Mrs. Chetwood disconcerted? Did she 
stumble over the names, “Miss Caroline Sanderson” 
and “Miss Barbara Sanderson?” There certainly 
was some confusion as the tall blonde and the petite 
brunette came forward with smiling grace. Did 
Mrs. Jack Carew bow ever so little more impressively 
over the slim fingers of the taller girl, and did she 
listen just a bit more deferentially when this same 
golden-haired, blue-eyed young woman spoke? 

“I’ve heard much of you,” she said to her after the 
first greetings. “Dick Bartlett—you knew him in 
Paris, didn’t you?—told me all about the delightful 
little group of Americans he met there.” 

A bright red flushed the girl’s creeks. Her lips 
parted, but before she could speak, her cousin asked: 
“And is he here now?—Mr. Bartlett, I mean.” 

114 


Tangled 115 

There was almost a reproof in the very turn of 
Mrs. Carew’s head. 

“No,” she said, with a cold smile. “Mr. Bartlett 
has gone to the Far East as war correspondent for 
the Eagle” 

Again the lips of the taller girl parted, and again 
the young woman at Mrs. Carew’s right interposed a 
remark. This time she led the conversation by an 
adroit turn to a point far distant from Mr. Richard 
Bartlett and his Paris experiences, nor was the 
gentleman mentioned again during the call. 

Mrs. Jack Carew was scarcely seated in her car¬ 
riage, however, before, in Caroline’s own room, the 
blue eyes flashed a troubled question into the brown. 

“Caroline, why did you do that?” demanded Bar¬ 
bara, “You didn’t give me a chance to explain. 
Mrs. Carew thinks I’m you—I know she does. When 
she spoke about Mr. Bartlett she turned to me—not 
you; and I never even saw Mr. Bartlett. There were 
other things, too—lots of them!” 

Barbara’s face was flushed. She spoke hurriedly, 
yet with evident restraint. 

The dark-eyed little woman opposite shrugged her 
shoulders. 

“Yes, I noticed,” she said demurely. 

“But, Caroline, I was so distressed!” 

“I wasn’t.” 

“But when she finds out next time, it will be so 
awkward!” 

“So it will—if she does,” agreed Caroline with 
mock impressiveness. “Suppose we don’t let her 
find out next time.” 

“Caroline!” 

“There, there, Barbara,” coaxed Caroline, “don’t 
look so dismayed. You don’t half-appreciate the 


Hustler Joe 


116 

joke. You were the rich Miss Sanderson. As for 
me—her ladyship quite disapproves of me/’ finished 
Caroline, with a tilt of her chin. 

“Oh, no—not that,” demurred Barbara, feebly. 

“And so I’m going to keep it up,” continued Caro¬ 
line, as if she had not heard. 

“Keep—it—up!” gasped the other. 

Caroline nodded gleefully. 

“My dear, don’t you see?” she cried. “We won’t 
have to do a thing. Mrs. Jack Carew—bless her 
heart!—will do it all. You’re ‘Miss Sanderson’— 
so am I; that’s the way we shall be known at present. 
Hampdon won’t call us ‘Barbara’ and ‘Caroline’ just 
yet, you know, and our kind visitor of this afternoon 
will scatter it broadcast that the tall blonde is Caro¬ 
line the millionairess and that the short brunette is 
Barbara, the poor cousin, and—there you are!” she 
concluded, with a sweep of her hands. 

“But we’ll be found out!” 

“Of course—in time; but the longer it’s put off 
the more fun it’ll be.” 

“But—there’s Aunt Emily.” 

“Humph! Just as if I couldn’t train her!” scoffed 
Caroline. “You know very well if I asked for a 
particular star, she’d order a stepladder built at once 
tall enough to reach it. Besides, if her conscience 
is too troublesome, she has only to call us by our pet 
names ‘Puss,’ and ‘Kit,’ and no one will be the 
wiser.” 

“But people—other folks!” 

“I don’t know a soul in Hampdon.” 

“There’s Mr. Bartlett.” 

“Pooh!—he’s away. Time enough to worry about 
him when he gets here. Besides, the fun will be all 
over long before he comes.” 


Tangled 117 

“But it seems so absurd—so dime-novelish!” 

“That’s exactly why I want to do it,” retorted 
Caroline. “Girls in books are always palming them¬ 
selves off as other people. I want to see how it 
works in real life. It will be such fun to watch fond 
mammas with marriageable sons snub me. Oh, Bar¬ 
bara, I could just hug that Mrs. Carew for putting 
me up to it!” 

“But when it is found out, Caroline, how do you 
think we’ll figure?” demanded Barbara, indignantly. 

Caroline shrugged her shoulders. 

“Don’t you worry, my dear. It will pass as ‘a 
delightfully original whim of that rich Miss Caroline 
Sanderson’s’ then. I know them! Besides,” she 
went on airily, “I really have no choice in the matter. 
Mrs. Carew has the whole thing in her own hands. 
Surely, my dear, you wouldn’t want me to go around 
on our first appearance in society, saying: There is 
a mistake, you know. I am the rich Miss Sanderson, 
and that tall, light-haired girl is only my poor 
cousin!” 

“Oh, Caroline, Caroline, how you do put things!” 
groaned Barbara. “I verily believe you could make 
me think it quite the proper thing to walk back¬ 
wards down the avenue as a daily exercise, if once 
you set your mind to it. I do, indeed! ” 

Some hours later Mrs. Jack Carew said to an 
intimate friend: 

“I called on that rich young Miss Sanderson, 
to-day—the one Dick Bartlett raved over last year. 
I thought he fell particularly captive to her dark 
eyes, but I must have been quite mistaken, for her 
eyes are blue, and her hair looks like spun gold. 
She’s tall, and has lots of style. There’s a cousin— 
an inoffensive little brown thing, pretty in her way; 


n8 


Hustler Joe 


but she won't cut much figure when her cousin, 
Caroline, is around, I fancy—though I've heard she's 
quite a fascinator, after all." 

And thus were Miss Barbara Sanderson and Miss 
Caroline Sanderson described, and thus, a little later, 
were they introduced to Mrs. Jack Carew's friends. 


CHAPTER III 


I N due course Mrs. Carew invited the Sanderson 
girls to dinner. There were others present, and 
all, with an alacrity that made Caroline’s brown eyes 
flash with delight, paid special homage to the tall, 
fair-haired girl in pale blue. 

That blue gown, which Barbara wore so charm¬ 
ingly, had cost Caroline more than money—it had 
cost her the hardest-fought battle of her life. 

“Now, my dear girl,” she had said one day to Bar¬ 
bara, “do be reasonable! You like pretty things as 
well as I. You are my cousin. You love silks and 
jewels and laces all the more ardently because you’ve 
had to wear calicoes and ginghams so much of the 
time. Your father staid at home and took care of 
the old folks; my father went off and got rich. Now 
part of that money belongs by right to you. Even 
if we weren’t playing this little game of ours, Bar¬ 
bara, I should just make you take part of your money 
—mind you, your money—and spend it for gowns. 
I’ve danced, and dined, and motored with all Paris 
for a playground, while you’ve been cooped up with 
the chickens in a country town. Now come—I’m 
going shopping!” 

That was but one of the many pleas which had 
finally brought Barbara to terms. Now she reveled 
in the soft fabrics and gleaming jewels, and gave 
herself unreservedly into Caroline’s hands. The 
result was a delight to all eyes; so when she walked 
into dinner that night at Mrs. Carew’s, leaning on 
119 


120 


Hustler Joe 

the arm cf the son of the house, Mrs. Carew herself 
looked on with keen approval. 

“Hm-m; she just suits him,” thought the lady. 
“That fair hair, and graceful poise of the head are 
wonderfully attractive. Paul may count himself 
lucky.” 

At that moment, had she but known it, Paul was 
counting himself anything but lucky. For the last 
week he had heard altogether too much of this young 
woman at his side. Her beauty, her wealth, her 
consummate desirability had been sung by others 
if not openly by his mother. He understood, now, 
that lady’s somewhat diplomatic remarks of the last 
few days. “Miss Caroline Sanderson” had not been 
the first young woman of capital and comeliness con¬ 
cerning whom Mrs. Carew had made such remarks. 
He glanced down at his companion—at the beautiful 
face, the gleaming jewels, and the soft blue of the 
gown. “The usual type!” he thought. Aloud he 
said: 

“How do you like Hampdon, Miss Sanderson?” 

“Oh, very much.” 

The man was conscious of a start of surprise. He 
had expected a listless, bored, perfunctory reply, 
akin to the question that had called it forth. This 
was concise and low-spoken, but full of unmistak¬ 
able enthusiasm. He asked her another question, 
then another, just to hear that same enthusiasm 
vibrating through the answers. He was becoming 
interested, when suddenly it occurred to him that 
this was Miss Caroline Sanderson, rich, sought after, 
and toadied to by all his friends. He stiffened, and 
the old mask of indifference fell over his countenance. 

Barbara was conscious of the change at once. 
“Dear me, now what have I done? Caroline would 


Tangled 121 

say I J d been ‘queer’ as usual, I suppose; and it’s 
Paul Carew, too. Dear, dear, she’ll be vexed. I 
must make amends.” 

To “make amends,” in Barbara’s idea, was to chat, 
laugh, and revel in society’s small talk; so she set 
about her task with an eagerness that was destined 
to atone for the past shortcomings. It resulted in 
Carew’s bowing her from the dining-room a little 
later with the mental verdict: “Flippant and com¬ 
monplace like the rest. That bit of individuality 
was a mere flash in the pan.” 

When Carew joined the ladies in the drawing¬ 
room he did not enter the admiring circle around his 
late dinner-partner. • He crossed the room to where 
Caroline sat looking at some photographs. 

“May I show those to you, Miss Sanderson?” he 
asked. 

“Thank you,” murmured Caroline. “You are very 
kind.” 

One by one they went over the photographs; he, 
a painfully attentive host; she, a punctiliously polite 
guest. It was after a long silence that she glanced 
up to find him moodily gazing across the room. 

“A penny for your thoughts, Mr. Carew,” she 
hazarded finally, with demure patience. 

A dull red flushed the man’s cheeks. 

“I beg your pardon. That was inexcusable of me. 
Suppose we take the other portfolio.” 

“I made you a proposition,” returned Caroline, 
with a merry smile. 

“A—proposition?” 

“Perhaps my offer wasn’t large enough to be 
tempting,” pursued Caroline. “Perhaps they’re 
worth more.” 

“I beg—oh, I understand,” he broke off, with a 


122 


Hustler Joe 


short laugh. Then he shook his head. “No, they’re 
not worth even a penny,” he said gravely. His eyes 
had grown somber; they were fixed on Barbara and 
her satellites. 

“My thoughts were quite out of tune with the 
whole thing,” he went on. “In fact, when you know 
more of me, you are bound to hear that I am always 
out of tune with a thing of this sort. You will hear 
that I am odd, opinionated, and—were it not for 
my name and my mother—quite impossible all 
round.” 

“Really! all that?” laughed Caroline, softly. “But 
that only excites my curiosity the more. What were 
those mystical, inharmonious thoughts? I’m not a 
bit afraid of them.” 

He looked down at her half-mocking, half-serious 
face, and his own changed. 

“I will tell you,” he said impulsively. “I was won¬ 
dering if money would spoil you as it does—well, 
your cousin across the room, for instance.” 

In spite of herself, Caroline gave a sudden ex¬ 
clamation and changed color. 

“There, now don’t you wish you hadn’t asked me?” 
he demanded. 

“Not a bit of it!” retorted Caroline promptly, 
quite herself again. “To prove it, I’m going deeper. 
Just why do you call my cousin spoiled, if you 
please? After that we’ll explore my case, perhaps. 
Do you—know her?” 

“Not at all; only the type and the signs. For 
instance-” 

“Ah, here you are, Miss Sanderson,” interposed 
Mrs. Carew, who, with two ladies had borne down 
upon them from across the room. “I have some 
friends here I want you to meet.” 



Tangled 123 

Five minutes after the introductions Paul Carew 
bowed himself away. His mother smiled. Not for 
nothing had she been so suddenly anxious that the 
“fascinating Barbara” should make some new 
acquaintances. 


CHAPTER IV 


S OCIETY was not long in becoming interested in 
all the Sandersons, particularly in the tall, 
golden-haired girl, reputed owner of the Sanderson 
millions. The glamour surrounding her even reached 
so far as to include the brown-eyed, brown-haired 
cousin, who was pronounced a “nice little thing, but 
just a bit too independent for her position, don’t you 
know.” Calls and invitations poured in upon them 
in a flood, and the two girls soon found themselves 
with but few waking hours to call their own. 

At first Barbara was in terror over their “little 
game” as Caroline termed it, and she was mo¬ 
mentarily alarmed lest her false position be dis¬ 
covered; but, as the days passed and nothing dis¬ 
quieting happened, she became easier in her mind, 
and at times even forgot all about it, so unquestion- 
ingly had their positions been accepted by their new 
friends. 

“After all,” she sighed to herself, “it’s my one good 
time; I’m going to take everything lovely that’s in 
it. It’s only for now, and ’twon’t last.” 

Accordingly she reveled in the music, lights, and 
flower-scented rooms; even the flash of her jewels 
and the soft swish of her silks bringing keen joy to 
her beauty-starved soul. 

Her enthusiasm for everything from a shopping 
trip to a cotillion brought blank amazement into 
the faces of her companions; but very shortly this 
same enthusiasm became known as “Miss Caroline 
124 


Tangled 125 

Sanderson’s refreshingly high spirits.” Her gracious 
acceptance of all homage, and her flattering delight 
in everything done for her enjoyment, led to the 
universal verdict of “Quite unspoiled by her wealth, 
don’t you know,” and her frequent unconvention¬ 
alities and ever present frankness became known as 
“charming originality.” 

All this the brown eyes saw, and seeing, gleamed 
with mischief. Caroline tried to be very demure 
these days. She told Barbara she was endeavoring 
to remember her “place.” She never said that but 
once, however, so fierce was the battle that came 
after it. 

“But, my dear girl,” laughed Caroline, “I’m not 
doing anything, am I? We’ll just have to let matters 
take their course. I can’t very well announce 
through the society columns—‘If you please, I, Caro¬ 
line Sanderson, small and a brunette, want more 
attention paid to me and less to my tall, beautiful 
cousin. I’m rich and she’s poor.’ Sound pretty! 
wouldn’t it? Besides,” with her old airiness, “how 
do you know it’s the money that makes people so 
nice to you? Maybe they like you better than they 
do me. Stranger things than that have happened, 
my dear!” 

And Barbara could only sigh, and exclaim, and 
sigh again, while Caroline laughed contentedly. 

As time passed, people grew used to seeing Paul 
Carew with the dark-eyed little woman known—in 
Hampdon—as Barbara Sanderson. He had always 
been called “odd,” and it seemed now quite the 
natural thing that he should set himself against 
Society’s leadership and ignore the claims of the fair 
haired cousin, preferring to bend his energies toward 
entertaining the less popular one of the two. 


Hustler Joe 


126 

To society in general—which made a pretty shrewd 
guess at Mrs. Carew’s ambitions for her son—the 
case presented cause for amusement; to Mrs. Carew 
in particular, the whole thing was deplorable. Still 
under the delusion that the engagement, which she 
felt in duty bound to keep, was Barbara’s, not Caro¬ 
line’s, and also still under the delusion that this 
same Barbara was the brown-eyed, brown-haired girl 
who had apparently made good Mrs. Molly Mar¬ 
tingale’s words by ensnaring Paul Carew’s heart— 
Mrs. Carew could see only disaster ahead. 

To remonstrate with her son was out of the ques¬ 
tion; Mrs. Carew knew his temperament and his 
abhorrence of the fortune-hunter far too well to 
attempt it. Interference with plans and interrup¬ 
tion of tete-a-tetes must be accomplished with great 
tact to avoid detection, otherwise, the somewdiat 
stubborn will of this same son of hers would be 
irrevocably set against the golden haired, golden 
haloed prize she so desired for him. 

Everywhere and always the two girls went to¬ 
gether; and everywhere and always the admiring 
throng around the tall, radiant blonde swept the 
little brunette to the outer fringe of the circle, 
whence Paul Carew as inevitably rescued her. And 
all the while his mother could but smile, and hide her 
chagrin. 

It was some days before New Year’s that Caroline 
Sanderson sprained her right ankle just severely 
enough to oblige her to keep from using it for a little 
time. When Mrs. Carew heard of this she thought 
deeply for a few minutes, then hurried to her desk 
and wrote two notes—one to Miss Caroline Sander¬ 
son, one to Miss Barbara Sanderson. 

Some hours later, in accordance with their present 


Tangled 127 

custom concerning city notes and messages, each 
opened the envelope addressed to the other. 

“Oh, how lovely!” exclaimed Barbara, as she 
glanced the note through to the signature. “I’ve 
always wanted to see Mrs. Carew’s country-place, 
and a winter week-end visit must be delightful with 
the sleighing and the skating and the tobogganing. 
There may be snow-shoeing, too, she says.” 

“Lovely!” echoed Caroline, her eyes on the ceiling 
and her lips curving a faint smile. 

“Oh, poor dear,” cried Barbara, “I forgot. There 
won’t be much skating and snow-shoeing for you, I’m 
afraid, with that miserable ankle. But, never mind, 
dearie, ’twill be lots better, then, and you can go 
sleigh-riding, anyway.” 

“Oh, no I can’t,” replied Caroline, shaking her 
head. “I’m not invited, you see.” 

“Not in—vited!” gasped Barbara. 

Caroline laughed at the dismayed face. 

“No, ma’am,” she said demurely. 

“But what is your note?” faltered Barbara. 

Caroline waved her two hands. 

“It says,” she began, “that Mrs. Carew exceed¬ 
ingly regrets my not being able to accompany my 
cousin to The Oaks, but she hopes very much that 
my cousin will be willing to go without me.” 

“But you could go by Friday!” 

“I haven’t a doubt of it.” 

“Then you shall.” 

“Tut, tut—I’m not invited.” 

“But you would have been if she had known.” 

“Not a bit of it!” 

“You mean-” 

Caroline nodded in answer to the dawning con- 


128 


Hustler Joe 


stemation in the eyes opposite. Her own were 
sparkling with merriment. 

“Then—I—won’t—go,” asserted Barbara. 

“Oh, yes you will, dear.” 

“No. I’ve decided once for all, Caroline. You 
must take your rightful position. I refuse to mas¬ 
querade in this absurd fashion any longer. It’s a 
good chance now to end it. Here’s this note to 
Caroline; well, you’re Caroline—now answer it.” 

“Just as if I would!” laughed Caroline, gleefully. 
“Not a bit of it! When that grand announcement 
is made, I want to be upright on my own two feet, 
ready to see all the fun and to take all the con¬ 
sequences. No, ma’am; I’m not going to skulk back 
here and write a note! ” 

“But, Caroline-” 

“Now, see here, dearie,” interrupted Caroline, 
affectionately. “I’ll warrant that at this moment 
Mrs. Jack Carew is writing notes, giving orders, and 
putting all available household machinery into 
motion,”—exactly what Mrs. Carew was doing—“so 
that this week-end visit to The Oaks may not seem 
like the sudden idea which it really is. Why, my 
dear, you’ll have a perfectly lovely time. Now go 
and answer your note!” 



CHAPTER V 


I T was decidedly disappointing to Paul Carew that 
his little brown-eyed friend was not a member 
of his mother's house-party. More than that, he 
suspected that the sprained ankle had been Mrs. 
Carew’s incentive for hurrying up the affair at this 
short notice, so that she might seize the golden op¬ 
portunity for throwing her beloved son and the 
young woman of her choice together with no brown¬ 
eyed maid to lure him away. 

“So that's the game!" thought Carew, thoroughly 
angry. “Humph, we'll see!" 

By ten o'clock Saturday morning all of Mrs. 
Carew's guests were playing like happy children out 
of doors. It was then that Paul Carew made the 
first move in the course of action which he had de¬ 
termined upon as being the best means to cope with 
and to defeat his mother's too plainly laid plans. 

In so far as his ideas of politeness would allow, 
he left Miss Sanderson severely alone, but he de¬ 
veloped a wonderful geniality toward all the others. 
He skated—but not with the tall blonde; he snow¬ 
balled—but not with this same blonde; he coasted— 
but not with Miss Sanderson, and he snow-shoed— 
but again not with Miss Sanderson. He laughed 
and chatted and joked and told stories; but not one 
of his jokes made a direct appeal to this young 
woman, and not one of his stories was told ap¬ 
parently for her ears. 

And yet- 


129 


130 Hustler Joe 

When night came Paul Carew knew that Miss 
Sanderson had skated the most gracefully, snow¬ 
balled the most accurately, and snow-shoed the least 
awkwardly of any lady of the party; he also knew 
which of his jokes had brought the swift retort to 
Miss Sanderson’s Ups, and which of his stories had 
brought the quick flash to Miss Sanderson’s eyes; 
furthermore, he also was sure that no suit was more 
natty, no rose-flush more becoming, no foot more 
trim than was this same Miss Sanderson’s. 

There was a heavy snow-fall Sunday which kept 
the guests indoors. To Carew it was a long day 
of restless wandering from room to room, of per¬ 
functory smokes with tiresome men, and of punctili¬ 
ous talks with unbrilliant women, pervaded con¬ 
stantly by a furtive watching of a certain fair-haired, 
slender young woman who was always doing the 
only interesting thing in the room, or making the 
only original remark that was heard. 

Monday dawned fair and clear. There was to be 
a sleigh-ride to a neighboring town with a country- 
hotel dinner at the end of it. The sleighs—some 
double, some single, but all cozy with robes and 
comfortable with foot-warmers—drew up one by one 
before the door as Mrs. Carew marshalled her guests. 
To her son and Miss Sanderson she assigned one of 
the single sleighs. 

Barbara looked frankly pleased as Carew helped 
her to her seat, but the light died from her eyes 
when she saw the stern-set lines of the man’s face. 
She did not know that every frowning lineament 
had been hastily summoned to hide the joy which 
Carew suddenly found in his heart. 

“So it’s come to this,” he was thinking bitterly, 
as he jerked the robe into place; “I’m pleased, 


Tangled 131 

pleased, like all the rest to bow down and worship 
at this golden shrine!” 

The first mile was a silent one; but gradually the 
witchery of the sun-lit morning, of the tinkling bells, 
and of the exhilarating air, together with the subtle 
charm of the radiant girl so near him, roused Carew 
from his morbid fancies. Always at his best out of 
doors, with the sweep of the wind on his cheek and 
with the feel of the reins in his hand, and conscious 
now of no prying, calculating eye, he gave himself 
unreservedly to the enjoyment of the moment at 
hand. 

The change electrified Barbara. She had not sup¬ 
posed he could talk so well, and she found herself 
taxed indeed to respond to his sallies. 

Perhaps it was his interest in the conversation that 
caused Carew to be at times almost unmindful of 
his horse. It was at one of these times that the 
animal shied violently, and bolted down the long 
straight road. 

Barbara sat tense and silent while the man beside 
her threw all of his strength into his iron-grip on 
the reins. Trees and shrubs flew past like baffled 
spirits of evil. The sharp air stung the cheeks of 
both man and girl, and whistled by their ears like 
the lash of some monster whip. Far ahead the road 
divided with an abrupt turn to the right and another 
to the left. Carew knew the place well and, just 
before he reached it, braced himself for one last 
effort. A mighty pull—and the left rein snapped. 
The sleigh swerved sharply and turned on its side, 
plunging the man and the girl into the snow. 

Barbara was thrown clear of the sleigh, but Carew 
was dragged a few feet until his common sense and 
the knowledge that his companion was in the snow 


132 Hustler Joe 

behind him caused him to relinquish his hold. With 
a twist of his body he rolled to one side and lay there 
motionless while the overturned sleigh ploughed into 
the snow not a foot from his head. The next minute 
he sat up and watched the end of the struggle. 

Ten yards ahead the battered sleigh crashed 
against a guidepost; the few remaining bits of 
leather snapped, and the horse ran free down the 
hill. Carew turned to find Barbara standing beside 
him. 

“And you're not hurt?" he cried, getting stiffly 
to his feet. 

“Not a bit. And you?—oh, you are!" she ex¬ 
claimed, as he turned his head. 

Carew stripped off his right glove and put his hand 
to his cheek. 

“Bah! It's only a scratch," he growled, frown¬ 
ing at the crimson stains that capped his finger-tips. 
“Now don’t fret. It’s all right. I’ll fix it," he went 
on hurriedly, giving her an apprehensive glance, 
and diving into his pockets with both hands. 

Barbara did not reply. In a moment her gloves 
were off, and her hands were searching among the 
scattered robes for her muff. In another moment 
she was back at his side shaking out the folds of a 
bit of snowy linen. 

“Now wait just a minute, please; I’ll have it all 
right. It doesn’t bleed much—it isn’t deep, I fancy," 
she finished, after a swift, but keen look at his face. 

Carew watched in dumb amazement the girl’s 
prompt, yet unhurried movements, as she dropped 
the handkerchief upon a convenient robe, stepped 
to one side and rubbed her hands vigorously with 
clean, untrodden snow. When she came back there 


Tangled 133 

was another bit of snow melting in the palm of her 
left hand. 

“HI bathe it and see how much there is to it,” 
she explained, as she dipped her handkerchief into 
her improvised basin. “There, it’s quite stopped 
bleeding,” she added a little later. “Apparently the 
skin was just grazed.” 

Carew was still silent. The red blood in his veins 
was throbbing an ecstatic response to each touch of 
the soft fingers, each zephyr of light breath from 
the parted lips so near him; yet every throb brought 
with it a fierce, unreasoning antagonism against this 
“gilded young woman's officiousness,” as he was 
pleased to term it. He was vexed at Barbara's deft¬ 
ness, and annoyed at her coolness during the past 
ten minutes. It would have pleased him better had 
she been nervous and helpless, shrieking at the first 
sight of blood on his face, thus more nearly meeting 
his cherished idea of how a pampered young woman 
of wealth and fashion should conduct herself under 
like circumstances. By the time Barbara had fin¬ 
ished, the man had worked himself into a state of 
irritable sarcasm highly satisfactory to his pride. 

“Thank you,” said he constrainedly. “I'm 
waiting.” 

“Waiting?” 

“For the hysterics—you've delayed them ad¬ 
mirably.” 

Barbara smiled. 

“And why must I have hysterics, pray?” she 
demanded. 

“Never mind,” he replied, with a short laugh. 
“Suppose we see what can be done to make you com¬ 
fortable while we wait; time enough for questions 
later on. There isn't a house within two miles, but 


134 Hustler Joe 

some of the rest of the party must surely be along 
soon, and there’s nothing to do but wait until they 
come and pick us up. We’ll fix a seat for you in the 
sleigh.” 

And he gathered up the robes and started for the 
guidepost. 

Some minutes’ hard work placed the sleigh upright 
and arranged a fairly comfortable nest for Barbara; 
then Carew silently took his place at her side. 

For a time neither spoke; Carew could not—he 
thought—and Barbara would not. It did not please 
Carew to be thus conquered by a horse, and ap¬ 
parently, to be in a fair way conquered by a girl, as 
well—and the one girl, too, that he most wished 
to ignore. 

Barbara stole a covert glance at the silent figure 
beside her. The eyes, somber and unwinking, gazed 
straight ahead. The lips, guiltless of curves, were 
set into stern, unsmiling lines. A sudden over¬ 
whelming sense of the absurdity of the affair came 
to Barbara and she broke the silence with a ringing 
laugh. 

“You seem amused,” vouchsafed the man, with¬ 
out turning his head. 

“I am,” confessed Barbara. “Only think how we 
shall look to our friends when they catch their first 
glimpse of us sitting here in this idiotic fashion with 
a guidepost for a horse!” 

And Barbara’s words ended in another joyous peal 
of laughter. 

Much against his will, Carew’s lips relaxed. 

“I can imagine it,” he said grimly. 

There was another long silence, then Barbara 
sighed. 

“Are you cold?” demanded Carew. 


Tangled 135 

“Warm as toast.” 

“That's fortunate,” he returned, and lapsed into 
his old silence. 

Barbara eyed him furtively; then she sighed 
again. 

The man did not move. 

“Er—Mr. Carew,” began Barbara demurely, “I am 
lonesome.” 

“What?” cried the man, startled out of his morose¬ 
ness; then he caught a glimpse of her face. “I regret, 
indeed, to deprive you so long of your usual throng 
of admirers.” His voice shook a little. 

“Oh, I don’t mind that in the least,” retorted 
Barbara, airily. “You’ll do just as well—only you 
must be nice and entertaining.” 

“Indeed!” murmured Carew, with a light lifting 
of his heavy brows. “You set too hard a task, I 
fear. I can’t be expected to compete with multi¬ 
tudes. Just think how many pretty things ten men 
can say to you while I am getting off one!” 

“Oh, but you don’t have to say pretty things to 
be nice and entertaining,” returned Barbara. “You 
are much more amusing when you are natural, you 
know—just stern and cross, and maybe a little bit 
rude.” 

“Well, upon my word!” ejaculated Carew. “Am I 
quite—that?” 

“Quite.” 

“Indeed! I beg your pardon, I’m sure,” he began 
stiffly. 

Barbara cut him short. 

“Oh, don’t—please don’t! You’ll spoil it all. 
Don’t you see? You’ll be like the others.” 

“Then I am—different?” 

She nodded emphatically. 


Hustler Joe 


136 

“How?” he demanded. 

“I’ve told you.” 

“Is that all the way?” 

The stem lines had vanished from Carew’s face. 
There was a new light in the man’s eye. Barbara 
saw, and grew restless under his catechism. 

“Isn’t that sufficient?” she parried. 

“To whet my curiosity—yes.” 

She was silent. 

He raised his head and drew a long breath. 

“I think I can tell you myself,” he went on 
gravely. “I don’t carry your muff nor dangle your 
boa; I don’t stoop to the nod of your head nor run 
at the beck of your fingers.” 

“Mr. Carew, why are those men so silly?” cut in 
Barbara. 

“Does their devotion weary you?” 

“Decidedly.” 

Carew flashed a swift glance into Barbara’s eyes 
—a glance so merry, so whimsical, so altogether 
tantalizing that Barbara responded as if it had been 
a spoken word. 

“Well?” she cried eagerly. 

“This is a most exceptional conversation, Miss 
Sanderson,” said Carew, tentatively. 

“Go on!” encouraged Barbara. 

Still he hesitated. 

“Well?” she prompted. 

“I was only thinking—there is a way out of it— 
in my opinion.” 

“And that is-?” 

“Hand over your millions to your cousin—change 
places with her.” 

Barbara almost sprang from her seat. 


Tangled 137 

“Oh!” she cried, while the red surged to her fore¬ 
head. 

Then the full force of the suggestion came to her, 
and she turned merry eyes on her companion. 

“You are complimentary,” she laughed. “I’m 
glad, sir, to find just how high an estimate you place 
on my attractions—of themselves.” 

“Oh, but-” 

“Well, of all things, what are you doing here?” 
demanded an amazed voice, as a two-seated sleigh 
swung around the curve. 

“Waiting for you,” returned Carew, nonchalantly, 
as he helped Barbara to the ground. “And why are 
you so late, pray?” 

“Late! My dear boy, you don’t think we’ve just 
come from the house! Why, we’ve been ’way to the 
hotel, and not finding sign or symptom of you we 
hustled ourselves off to look for you.” 

“But you didn’t pass here on your way down!” 
exclaimed Carew. 

“We didn’t; we took the short cut a mile up the 
road.” 

“Short cut,” muttered Carew, “who’d want a 
short cut a day like this!” 

And for some reason the rose-flush deepened in 
Barbara’s cheek. 


CHAPTER VI 


O N Tuesday, Mrs. Carew, together with her son 
and guests left The Oaks and returned to 
Hampdon. The house-party was pronounced an un¬ 
qualified success by the guests—and by Mrs. Carew 
as well, under her breath. Mrs. Carew was building 
air-castles, though for their foundation there was 
only the rose-flush in a girl's cheek, and the new 
light in a man’s eyes. 

It certainly was not easy for Carew to go back 
to the old indifferent footing with Miss Sanderson 
after that memorable sleigh-ride. At first he tried 
to avoid her as before; but one merry glance from 
her eyes brought an answering gleam of comprehen¬ 
sion from his own, and invariably led him by a 
circuitous, but none the less sure, route to her side. 
Once there, an enigmatical remark, to which he alone 
possessed the key, or a low-voiced comment, whose 
words were for only his ears, held him a willing 
captive. 

Society was amazed, but it secretly chuckled at 
the change. Even the men who feared his rivalry 
could not keep from rejoicing that they now might 
rank him as one of themselves—it gave countenance 
to their race for this golden prize. 

Caroline, too, saw the change, and smiled. She 
was well pleased. It was then, too, that Mrs. Carew’s 
air-castles took upon themselves turrets and towers 
of certainty. Still fearful, however, lest they were 
built upon the sands of possibility, instead of upon 
138 


Tangled 139 

the rocks of probability, Mrs. Carew hid her joy 
from her son’s eyes, and accepted with studied in¬ 
difference this new turn of affairs which seemed to 
promise so much. 

It was this very diplomacy on his mother’s part, 
perhaps, that closed Paul Carew’s eyes. So naturally 
had it all taken place, so easily did his feet slip into 
the path prepared for them, and so gradually had 
the change come about—Carew scarcely realized 
that it was a change at all. 

As for Barbara herself, she stopped less and less 
frequently to think now. She accepted what came 
with a reckless delight that yet bore with it a fear 
to question. She only knew that the sun never had 
been brighter, the sky bluer, nor the air more ex¬ 
hilarating than on those early days in January. 

The month was not two weeks old, however, when 
there came the reaction, and Barbara’s restlessness 
found voice. 

“Caroline,” she remonstrated one day, “I’m seri¬ 
ously disturbed. Haven’t you had enough of this 
absurd farce of masquerading?” 

“Why, I’m enjoying it,” murmured Caroline. 

“I am not.” 

“But, only think of the admiring throngs-” 

A gesture from Barbara silenced her. 

“Caroline, that’s exactly the trouble. Don’t you 
see? They are getting troublesome—these admiring 
throngs!” Barbara voice quivered with scorn. 

“Poor dear!” soothed Caroline. 

Barbara sprang to her feet and moved restlessly 
around the room. 

“Caroline,” she began, turning and confronting her 
cousin, “it’s just got to stop. If you don’t find a 
way to tell, I shall. I never—never thought the 



140 Hustler Joe 

thing would last like this. If I’d had the faintest 
conception of your carrying it to such a length, I 
would have vetoed it at the start.” 

“But, dearie,” coaxed Caroline, “I didn’t suppose 
it would last so long either. I had no idea it would 
be for more than a week or two. I thought, of course, 
’twould have been found out long ago; but it hasn’t 
—and it has been fun! ” 

“ Tun!’” 

“Dear, it’s only a joke. Don’t make it so serious.” 

“Serious!” stormed Barbara. “I suppose it isn’t 
serious that Mr. Houston, and Mr. Livingstone, and 
half a dozen others are sending me flowers and candy 
every fifteen minutes. I tell you, Caroline, I don’t 
dare to be alone a second with any one of those men 
for fear of a proposal of marriage!” 

“And there’s Carew, too,” murmured Caroline. 

Barbara flushed scarlet. 

“You are entirely mistaken there; Mr. Carew is 
emphatically not one of them.” 

“Oh!” said Caroline. 

Barbara turned to her cousin indignantly. 

“Caroline,” she said sharply. “I’ll give you just 
twenty-four hours. At the end of that time, if 
things and people are not in their proper places once 
more, I shall go straight home. You can explain 
the disappearance of the ‘rich Miss Sanderson’ then 
in any way you please.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” murmured Caroline, with pretended 
meekness; but in her heart she knew herself 
conquered. 

Before the twenty-four hours were half gone, how¬ 
ever, a certain yellow envelope had put a new phase 
on the situation. It contained a telegram from the 
husband of Caroline’s old nurse—the nurse who had 


Tangled 141 

almost worshipped Caroline from her babyhood days. 
The telegram read: 

Sarah is dying. She calls for you. Could you come? 

There was not a moment’s hesitation on Caro¬ 
line’s part. She made preparations at once to leave 
on the first train for Vermont. To Barbara she said 
softly in farewell: 

“My dear, I give you my word of honor, I’ll make 
everything right immediately upon my return. Be 
patient a wee bit longer—there’s a dear!” 

In her room that night, Barbara thought of those 
words. 

“Patient!” she laughed scornfully. “As if I could 
be anything else! I certainly wouldn’t be apt to 
take the brunt of this thing all alone.” 


CHAPTER VII 


T HE days that immediately followed were miser¬ 
able ones for Barbara, The increasing devo¬ 
tion of Houston, Livingstone, and the others con¬ 
vinced her that no idle fears had led her to appeal 
to her cousin. Caroline had been detained in Ver¬ 
mont longer than she expected to be. The sick 
woman had rallied a little, and she begged so pite¬ 
ously for Caroline to stay until the end—which could 
not be far off, the doctor said—that Caroline had 
written that she shouldn't return home so long as 
she could be of any comfort where she was. 

It was on the fourth day after Caroline's departure 
that Barbara, almost in despair at the seemingly 
rapid culmination of her fears, determined to sum¬ 
mon Carew to her aid. There had been a few guests 
to dinner, and Carew had lingered after the rest 
had gone. Mrs. Chetwood was nodding over the 
evening paper when Barbara led the way to the far 
end of the drawing-room where their words would 
not reach her aunt's ears. Carew watched her in 
wonder, and with a curious quickening of his pulse 
as she motioned him to a seat at her side. 

“Mr. Carew," she began, with manifest embarrass¬ 
ment, “I want your help." 

“Yes." His voice was low, but eager. 

The red grew deeper in Barbara's cheek. After 
all, it was harder than she had thought it would be. 
It was a bit unusual to ask a man to be so devoted 
that half a dozen others could get no chance to pour 
their unwelcome love into her ears. 

142 


Tangled 143 

“It—it is not easy for me to tell it,” she faltered. 
“It—it is so absurd—so—I’m afraid you won’t 
understand it.” 

“Try to tell me, please,” begged the man, softly, 
leaning forward so that his eyes might look into 
hers. “I’m sure I will understand.” 

Barbara raised her head and met his level gaze. 
The next moment her eyelashes swept her cheek, 
and her hands fluttered nervously to her throat. 

“I—on second thoughts, I believe I won’t do it,” 
she said hurriedly. “I’m sure you couldn’t help me. 
I’ll fight it out alone.” 

“My dear girl, surely you think I’m your friend!” 

“Yes.” 

“And shouldn’t friends help—other friends?” 

“Perhaps.” 

“Then tell me what troubles you.” 

“You—might not be able to help me.” 

“Is it kind not to give me the opportunity?” 

Barbara hesitated. 

“I—I believe I will tell you,” she cried suddenly. 

“Of course you will!” exclaimed the man. “I’m 
listening.” 

Barbara fixed her eyes on the glowing brass knob 
of one of the andirons ten feet away. Her words 
tumbled over one another in confused haste, but 
there was not one that failed to reach the quick 
ear of the man at her side. 

"It—it is this way. I want you to do something 
for me. Perhaps you remember—you told me once 
that—that you never held my muff nor carried my 
boa; nor obeyed the nod of my head or the beckon¬ 
ing of my fingers. Well, I want you to—do all those 
things for just a few days. Will you?” 


Hustler Joe 


144 

It was then that Barbara turned and raised 
luminous eyes to his. 

Carew searched for words, but could find none; 
even his voice played the coward and ran away. He 
could only gaze dumbly into the shy, flushed face, 
while a torrent of confused thoughts flooded his 
brain. His amazement was not lessened when the 
girl made a swift little gesture of delight. 

“Oh, I'm so glad you take it like that,” she sighed, 
in plain relief. “I was so afraid you’d be sarcastically 
polite and say With pleasure, my dear Miss San¬ 
derson’; but, instead, you are frankly amazed, and 
you pay me the compliment of letting me see it, too. 
The rest will be easy, now,” she went on happily. 
“Listen, please ; if you are with me there will be no 
chance for those silly boys to say what is so evidently 
on the tip of their tongue.” 

“And you don’t want them to say it?” Carew’s 
voice gave no indication of his inward tumult. 

“I do not.” 

“Poor boys!” 

She shrugged her shoulders. 

“Your sympathy is quite wasted, I assure you,” 
she retorted. Then, with a quick change of manner: 
“I may depend on your help?” 

“Most certainly! It will be a pleasure-” a 

swift glance of reproach stayed his lips. “I mean, I 
shall be glad to serve you,” he corrected, with a 
smile. 

“Thank you: it will be only for a few days,” she 
explained, the old hesitancy coming back to her 
manner. “You see I—I am in a false position just 
now.” 

“And am I not to know about that, too?” His 
eyes were pleading. 



Tangled 145 

She shook her head. 

“The secret of it is not entirely mine to give/’ 
she replied. “But—when you do know it you will 
understand it—I am sure you will; and yet—now 
that I have told you, I am almost frightened. When 
you are gone, I shall wish that I hadn’t, I fear. I 
shall not know just what you’ll be thinking. I shall 
be afraid you’ll misunderstand for—for even these 
few days. It was an extraordinary request, after all, 

and-” She dropped her hands, loosely clasped, 

to her lap, and raised troubled eyes to his face; 
“Please, won’t you—say something?” she cried with 
a nervous little laugh. 

The man’s breath quickened. For long minutes 
now he had been fighting an overmastering some¬ 
thing that had set the blood to coursing through 
his veins with tingling ecstasy, and that had almost 
found speech at his eyes if not at his lips. He 
dropped his hand heavily on her clasped fingers and 
challenged her gaze to meet his. 

“Caroline, I have something to say,” he began, his 
voice shaking; but at the name the girl sprang to 
her feet with a cry so agonized that he stopped in 
dismay. 

“No, no—not that—not that!” she exclaimed. 
“Not you—now!” 

For an instant he hesitated, and his mutinous 
eyes sought hers with ardent appeal; then he took 
both her hands in his with almost reverent gentle¬ 
ness, and bowed his head until his lips touched her 
fingers. 

“As you will,” he said huskily. Turning, he passed 
swiftly down the long room and into the hall. A 
moment later Barbara heard the outer door close. 

Outside, the street echoed and re-echoed the sharp 


146 Hustler Joe 

click of a man’s steps as a solitary pedestrian hurried 
down the avenue. 

“So it’s come to this,” Carew was thinking bit¬ 
terly; “this—I, too, have fallen down at this golden 
shrine; and she—good Heaven! she thinks I am like 
the rest. She trusted me. She asked my aid; she 
appealed to me—to me alone. And I?—how did I 
meet the trust? By thrusting in her face the very 
thing she so dreaded. How troubled her dear eyes 
were, when they met mine! How tremulous her 
lips, her hands! How I longed to catch and hold 
those fluttering little fingers! By Heaven! I will 
prove to her that she can trust me.” 


CHAPTER VIII 


M RS. JACK CAREW gave a dinner-party the 
next evening; and a few minutes before the 
hour appointed, a tall, bronze-bearded young man 
was ushered into the Carew drawing-room. 

“This is a pleasure, Mr. Bartlett,” cried Mrs. 
Carew, extending a cordial hand. 

“To me, certainly,” drawled a slow voice, which 
somehow gave the impression of hidden depth and 
strength. 

Mrs. Carew smiled. 

“I was delighted when I heard of your arrival,” 
she said, “and I’m so glad you could come to-night. 
You’ll meet the old crowd here, too—Houston, Miss 
Lawrence, and—oh, and I have a surprise for you; 
that Miss Sanderson you met in Paris and raved 
over—she’s to be here.” 

“The Miss Sanderson?” cried Dick joyfully. 

Mrs. Carew nodded, then turned to greet other 
guests. 

“Yes, it’s the Miss Sanderson,” she resumed as 
soon as she got Bartlett’s ear again. “She has lots 
of money, you know, and every one has fallen an 
abject slave to her blue-eyed, golden-haired majesty.” 

“ ‘Blue eyed’—‘golden haired!’” exclaimed Bart¬ 
lett in a tone that suddenly silenced the hum of 
voices near them. Paul Carew stepped close to his 
mother’s side, his eyes on Bartlett’s face. 

“My dear lady,” continued Bartlett, with a short 
laugh, “your charmer is not mine, I assure you.” 

147 


148 Hustler Joe 

“But she did know you in Paris, Dick,” ex¬ 
postulated Mrs. Carew, dazedly. “I talked with her 
about you. Pray, are there two Caroline Sander¬ 
sons?” 

“Only one, I solemnly swear,” bowed Dick, 
mockingly. “There could be but one with those 
glorious brown eyes.” 

“Brown eyes!” gasped Mrs. Carew, but the low 
voice of her son interrupted. 

“Mother—mother—she’s here!” 

For a fleeting moment Mrs. Carew and her guests 
caught the full beauty of the tall figure against the 
crimson draperies of the doorway. There were the 
graceful folds of shimmering white outlining the 
slender form and sweeping the floor at its feet; there 
was a dash of exquisite blue where fine turquoises 
encircled the throat and bordered the low cut 
corsage ; above, there was the well set, proudly car¬ 
ried head with its crown of golden hair and its simple 
knot of turquoise velvet. 

“I never set eyes on that girl before,” said Dick 
Bartlett in a low, distinct voice; and in the electric- 
silence that followed his words, Barbara swept grace¬ 
fully down the room to greet her hostess. 

Mrs. Carew’s voice trembled over the few words 
of greeting; it trembled still more as she said: 

“Miss Sanderson, you have met Mr. Bartlett, I 
believe.” 

Barbara bowed gravely. The name scarcely 
reached her ears, so conscious was she of that other 
presence at Mrs. Carew’s side. She was dreading, 
yet longing to meet Paul Carew’s eyes. 

To Dick Bartlett it was a moment of mute stupe¬ 
faction. He had looked for a polite denial of the 
acquaintance : he had received a cool bow of recog- 


Tangled 149 

nition. The only thing that finally came clear to 
his bewildered senses was that that was a case for a 
detective, not a newspaper correspondent. Who 
was this yellow haired siren that was palming her¬ 
self off as his winsome little brown-eyed friend? 
Where was the real Caroline Sanderson? A fierce, 
uncontrollable anger took possession of him. He 
forgot the time and the place, his hostess, and what 
w r as due to her guests; he knew only an overmaster¬ 
ing desire to bring complete discomfiture on this 
sham of a woman before him. He stepped close to 
the girl’s side, and spoke. His voice was low, but 
so breathless was the silence about him that every 
word was distinct to all ears. 

"I find you somewhat changed, Miss Sanderson. 
You are taller than when I saw you in Paris. Your 
hair, too—brown, then; was it not?” 

Every trace of color left Barbara’s face. She 
swayed dizzily. It was an almost unconscious move¬ 
ment on Paul Carew’s part that brought him close 
to her side just as her trembling lips murmured: 

“Mr.—Bartlett!” 

“Yes,” bowed the newspaper correspondent. 


CHAPTER IX 


T HERE had been a sudden change for the worse 
in the condition of the sick nurse in Vermont, 
and she had passed away during the night preceding 
Mrs. Carew’s dinner-party. Caroline had made im¬ 
mediate plans for a return home, but the best con¬ 
nections she could make with the somewhat irregular 
train accommodations would not bring her into 
Hampdon until half-past four o’clock. As it hap¬ 
pened, the trains were late, and it was just six when 
she reached home and burst unceremoniously into 
Mrs. Chet wood’s presence. 

“Aunt Emily, tell me, isn’t this Mrs. Carew’s 
dinner-party night?” she cried, after a hurried kiss 
of greeting. 

“Why, yes, dear. You were invited, you know, 
but-” 

“Was seven the hour?” interrupted Caroline, 
recklessly. 

“Yes, dear.” 

The girl glanced hastily at the little bronze clock 
on the mantle. 

“Six! Then Barbara hasn’t gone,” she cried in a 
relieved voice. 

“Oh, but she has,” returned Mrs. Chetwood. “She 
was going to drive around by Mrs. Wheeler’s and 
leave some roses for Adelaide; she was to stay and 
chat with her until time to go to Mrs. Carew’s. I 
tried not to have her, but she would do it. She has 
been restless and uneasy all day.” 

Caroline gave a sudden exclamation and sank into 
150 


Tangled 151 

the nearest chair. Two minutes later she was again 
on her feet. 

“Aunt Emily, I’m going to dress right away, and 
drive straight to Mrs. Carew’s.” 

“But you refused—your place will be filled!” cried 
Mrs. Chetwood in dismay. 

“Dinner! I never thought of dinner. I sha’n’t 
stay, of course, but I must get there before Barbara 
does. Auntie, Dick Bartlett is in town. I read it 
in the newspaper just before I got to Hampdon, and 
he’ll be sure to be at that dinner-party; Mrs. Carew 
dotes on him—always did. He knew me in Paris, 
you know. Only think what it means if he sees 
Barbara first! Oh!” 

And Caroline ran from the room and hurried 
upstairs. 

Caroline Sanderson made all possible haste with 
her toilet that night, yet, hurry as best she could, 
she did not reach Mrs. Carew’s drawing-room door 
until just as Dick Bartlett bowed his response to 
Barbara’s aghast exclamation. 

A dismayed glance at the little group around Bar¬ 
bara told Caroline that her coming was all but too 
late. With a desperate attempt, however, to grasp 
and hold what was left of the situation, she tripped 
through the door and advanced upon the group with 
a merry laugh. 

“Oh, Mr. Bartlett,” she cried, “why didn’t you 
tell me you were coming to-night, then I wouldn’t 
have lost half of the fun!” 

A tense something snapped in the consciousness 
of every member of the group; the laugh cleared the 
atmosphere, and Dick Bartlett’s enthusiastic wel¬ 
coming of Caroline filled every one’s thoughts for a 
moment. Then came a dazed pause. 


152 Hustler Joe 

“And are you Caroline Sanderson ?” demanded a 
dozen voices at once. 

Caroline nodded gleefully. 

“At your service,” she said, ending with a low 
bow. 

“And you?” Every eye was turned on Barbara. 

“I am Barbara,” said that young lady, too dumb¬ 
founded at Caroline's sudden appearance to say 
more. 

Society, as represented by Mrs. Carew’s dinner¬ 
party, drew one long breath of amazement. 

“But how- 

“What- 

“I don't see- 

“But did you-” began half a dozen voices at 

once. 

Caroline had expected this attack, and she was 
ready for it. 

“Very simply!” she laughed. “Through a little 
slip at the first our names were confused, and I 
couldn't resist the temptation to let it pass.” 

There was a chorus of exclamations; then every 
one laughed and talked together. 

“We’ll just never forgive you!” cried one after 
another, merrily; and Barbara’s blue eyes flashed a 
mirthful glance of comprehension into the brown, as 
Barbara found the positions reversed and herself on 
the outer edge of the group of which Caroline was 
the radiant center. 

Few of Mrs. Carew’s dinners were very formal 
affairs, and this certainly was not one of the few. 
Caroline's objections to staying were soon over¬ 
ruled and she was prevailed upon to make one of the 
merry company gathered around the table a little 
later. By her side sat Paul Carew, in accordance 



Tangled 153 

with his mother's request. Mrs. Carew had told 
him that this attention would make Caroline's posi¬ 
tion easier under the very peculiar circumstances in 
which she was placed. Opposite, sat Barbara, quiet, 
and a little flushed, but with no trace in her eyes of 
the troubled look which for so many days had dis¬ 
turbed Carew. It was in vain, however, that he 
challenged those same eyes to meet his. Barbara 
would not so much as glance at him. 

“And so this was the secret," thought Carew; “and 
that was why she would not let me speak. And now 
there's no golden stumbling-block in my way. She's 
poor—God bless her!" And Carew's lips curved into 
an exultant smile. 

Even after the coffee and cigars, there was no 
chance for tete-a-tetes; and in spite of Carew's best 
efforts, there were only a warm clasp of Barbara's 
fingers and a conventional word or two before Bar¬ 
bara left with her cousin. 

“To-morrow I'll see her," promised Carew to him¬ 
self; “to-morrow!" 

And he bowed low to the last of his mother's 
guests. 


CHAPTER X 


D EAR me, Paul, am I awake, or am I dreaming?” 

demanded Mrs. Carew, sinking into a big 
leather chair before the library fireplace, as the hall- 
door closed. “Is that little brown-eyed maid really 
Caroline Sanderson? Is she?” 

“It looks like it, mother.” 

There was a silence. Paul was gazing dreamily 
into the fire. His mother eyed him with some ap¬ 
prehension. When she finally spoke her voice was 
a bit forced. 

“It was quite a joke on us, wasn’t it? Really, 
Paul, I—I think you were the only one of the whole 
lot of us who saw the real Caroline’s true worth. 
You liked her from the first, you know.” 

“I did, most certainly,” smiled Carew. 

“You like her the best, now, too, don’t you?” 
Mrs. Carew tried to make her voice unconcerned. 

A stem look leaped into the young man’s eyes, but 
almost at once it gave way to a whimsical twinkle— 
Carew could afford to be whimsical. To him the 
road stretched straight ahead in a rosy glow of 
happiness. 

“I don’t think I do now, mother,” he returned 
smoothly. “You know, you made it easy for me 
to see a good deal of the other Miss Sanderson, and 
—I could not fail to see her worth.” 

“Paul, you don’t—love her?” 

All the merriment left Carew’s face. He met his 
mother’s gaze squarely, his eyes glowing. 

154 


Tangled 155 

“I do, mother/' he said quietly. 

For a moment Mrs. Carew’s eyes dwelt on her 
son’s face with mingled tenderness and longing; then 
she sighed and put her hand to her head. 

“It’s all right, Paul—all right. I love her myself. 
I don’t blame you. I did want the money for you, 

but-” she broke off short and started to her feet. 

“Paul—Paul—my poor boy!” she cried. 

“Why, mother!” The man gazed in astonishment 
at the woman’s transformed face. “What is it?” 

“Paul, you—can’t, dear. She’s Barbara, and 
Barbara’s engaged!” 

“En—gaged!” 

“She is—she is—it’s a secret, but I had to tell you. 
Molly Martingale wrote it. I’ll get the letter—it’s 
here.” 

And Mrs. Carew hurried to the writing-desk in 
the comer. 

Once more Helen Carew read that letter straight 
through from the first word to the last—this time 
aloud—and once more the “possibilities” and the 
“engagement” referred to Barbara instead of to 
Caroline. Mrs. Carew’s voice choked and broke over 
the last words, and her eyes lifted themselves fear¬ 
fully to her son’s face. In spite of what she knew 
she must see there, she started at the misery-filled 
eyes and tense lips. 

“May it not be—somehow, a—mistake?” he asked. 

Mrs. Carew shook her head. 

“Read for yourself,” she said sadly, handing him 
the letter. 

The man, too, read straight through without a 
thought of skipping. 

“I—I understand,” he said huskily, holding out 
with a shaking hand the bit of pale blue note-paper. 


Hustler Joe 


156 

Then he rose somewhat unsteadily to his feet. 
“Good-night, mother." 

“Paul, I'm sure," began Mrs. Carew, pleadingly, 
but a gesture from her son’s hand silenced her. 

“Not now, please, mother—to-morrow!" And he 
was gone. 

“Oh-oh-oh!" sobbed Mrs. Carew, sinking back into 
her chair. “And I can’t help him—I can’t help 
him!" 

Upstairs at his desk sat her son, his head bowed 
on his outstretched arms. 

“So that was the secret, and that was the false 
position! ’’ he moaned over and over again “It never 
was the other at all. And she wanted to save me 
from myself, and she would not even listen. And 
yet—how dear she’s grown to me—how dear!" 


CHAPTER XI 


I T was half past seven the next morning when 
Mrs. Carew was gently awakened by her maid. 
“I beg pardon, Mrs. Carew—your son—he wishes 
to speak to you, and bade me wake you up.” 

Some minutes later Mrs. Carew entered her 
private sitting-room and confronted a grave-faced 
man. 

“Paul!” 

“Forgive me, mother; I had to see you. I’m off 
to New York, and shall sail for London to-morrow.” 

“London!” Mrs. Carew dropped weakly into a 
chair. 

“I’ve got to go, mother. It’s the best way out 
of it. I’ve thought of it on all sides. I’ve got to 
fight it out by myself, and I’ve got to do it away 
from—her. Weeks ago Uncle Charles asked me to 
go to London and attend to that Hendricks affair 
for him. As I happen to know he had engaged pas¬ 
sage for to-morrow. I shall go in his place, that’s 
all; and he’ll be mighty glad of the chance to stay 
at home.” 

“But, Paul—Miss Sanderson! What will she— 
think?” 

The man turned his head so that only his clean 
cut profile with its firm mouth and chin met the 
anxious eyes of his mother. 

“She will probably give my departure scarcely a 
thought,” he returned with an effort. “I did hope— 
but never mind,” he broke off bitterly. “I see my 
mistake now. I shall write a conventional note of 
157 


Hustler Joe 


J 5 8 , 

good-by, of course, and there the matter will end, 
save that I shall go off and stay off until I can come 
back and face her like a man. Knowing what I do 
now, I can understand something she half told me 
the other night. If she thinks of me at all, she will 
think I am merely following her wishes by holding 
my peace. And now—good-by, mother.” 

It was some time later that Caroline and Bar¬ 
bara Sanderson, together with Mrs. Chetwood, rose 
from their breakfast-table. The meal had been en¬ 
livened by a full account of Mrs. Carew’s dinner¬ 
party the evening before. Mrs. Chetwood had been 
in a flutter of excitement ever since Caroline’s whirl¬ 
wind arrival at seven o’clock, and she fell upon each 
bit of information with eager delight. 

“Well, well, bless my soul,” she nodded vigorously, 
as they passed out of the breakfast-room. “It must 
have been almost as good as a play. How I should 
like to see Paul Carew now!” 

“Well, you won’t have to wait long, aunt, I fancy,” 
laughed Caroline, as Mrs. Chetwood turned to go 
up the stairs. “He assured me he should call 
to-day.” 

A swift red showed in Barbara’s cheek. 

“Oh, he did,” repeated Caroline, her eyes on Bar¬ 
bara’s face. 

“I haven’t a doubt of it,” retorted Barbara, flip¬ 
pantly, as they entered the library together. “He 
will have to call and pay his respects to the new 
millionairess, of course.” 

“Now that’s just where the new millionairess 
won’t cut any figure,” replied Caroline, saucily. “It’s 
the deposed millionairess that will get all the 're¬ 
spects.’ ” 

“Humph!” shrugged Barbara, all the more dis- 


Tangled 159 

dainfully because of the sudden joy that would sing 
in her heart. “You think him so different, then, 
from the rest?” 

“Emphatically, yes.” 

Barbara's eyes sought the window. 

“Oh!” she said. “And yet, he’s seemed to wor¬ 
ship—gold like the others of late.” 

“In the hair only,” amended Caroline, softly. 

“Now wouldn’t it be funny,” resumed Barbara, 
as if she had not heard, “if he should—well, follow 
in Houston’s and Livingstone’s footsteps and refuse 
to meet my eyes. Caroline, did you see them last 
night?” 

“I most certainly did!” laughed Caroline. “No, 
my dear, the whole world couldn’t keep Paul Carew 
away from a certain young woman of my acquaint¬ 
ance just now, I’m thinking. He-” 

She stopped as a maid entered with a note. 

At first sight of the handwriting, Barbara flushed. 
Caroline leaned back in her chair and watched the 
pretty color grow in her cousin’s cheek as the letter 
was opened; then she started forward in amazement 
at the sudden white that came to Barbara’s face. 

“Barbara!” she cried. “Why, Barbara!” 

Mechanically Barbara held out the letter. 

“Mr. Carew has—written,” she said. 

My Dear Miss Sanderson : 

Sudden business calls me abroad for some weeks. It 
is imperative that I leave to-day, therefore I do not find 
it possible to call and tender you and your cousin my 
congratulations on the merry outcome of your little 
masquerade. 

With the best of wishes for you both, and hoping to 
renew our acquaintance at some future date, I am, 
Very sincerely yours, 


Paul Carew. 



160 Hustler Joe 

“Barbara, what did you do to him?” demanded 
Caroline, after a benumbed silence. 

“Let him see who I was, to be sure,” returned 
Barbara, in a voice that shook in spite of her efforts 
to control it. 

“That’s not it—I never will believe it!” 

“No?” replied Barbara. Her lips smiled, but her 
eyes were dark with anger and hurt pride. “Then 
perhaps it really is—business.” 

“ ‘Business!’ ” scoffed Caroline. “Barbara, you 
know better. Haven’t I eyes? Haven’t I seen him 
watch you, and be drawn as by a magnet straight to 
your side?” 

“While I was ‘the rich Miss Sanderson’—yes,” 
said Barbara, still with that mocking smile. 

“Barbara, you did do something—say something,” 
began Caroline; but the girl opposite turned on her 
so fiercely she stopped, her remonstrance half given. 

“I’ll tell you what I did,” stormed Barbara. “I 
kept him from laying his hand and his name at the 
feet of the rich Miss Sanderson; I saved him from 
himself; I told him that I was in a false position— 
that I had a secret which was not mine to give. Last 
night, when you declared your true name, he learned 
what that false position was; last night he dis¬ 
covered the secret. This morning he is gone—gone! 
And he didn’t dare to face me; he didn’t dare to 
meet my eyes. He hid, like the coward that he is, 
behind that pitiful pen-scrawl and the plea of ‘busi¬ 
ness!’ Now do you believe what I say?” 

For a breathless instant Caroline sat motionless, 
gazing at the quivering, wrathful-eyed girl before 
her; then she held out two loving arms. 

“He just isn’t worth one thought, dearie, and we 
won’t give him one, either. I was sure I never 


Tangled 161 

could believe it, but it looks as if I should have to, 
after all. I—I think I hate that man, Barbara!” 

It was not one thought, but many thoughts of 
Carew, however, that forced a way into Barbara’s 
heart during the days that followed, even though 
Barbara’s angry pride stood at the door with a 
flaming sword of scorn and tried to drive them back 
—they still trooped in, until the many became as 
one, so continuously was the big, strong man in her 
consciousness, and always with the tender, happy 
light in his eyes as she had last seen him. 


CHAPTER XII 


P AUL CAREW had crossed the Atlantic many 
times, but never before was his trip in reality 
so short and in seeming so long. Once on land, he 
plunged into business with an avidity and an atten¬ 
tion to detail that brought his mission to a comple¬ 
tion in a wonderfully short time—to Carew, it was 
a disastrously short time. He certainly was not 
ready to go back to America now. If his ostensible 
reason for leaving Hampdon no longer called for his 
absence, his real reason most surely did. As yet he 
had not found the courage that would enable him 
to meet unflinchingly a certain all-too-well remem¬ 
bered pair of blue eyes. 

He sat down and wrote to his uncle a lengthly 
account of the business so recently brought to a 
satisfactory close. This letter, together with one to 
his mother stating that other matters would keep 
him some months longer abroad, he despatched at 
once. Then he drew a long breath of relief. 

From London he drifted to Paris, from Paris to 
Monte Carlo, and from Monte Carlo back to Lon¬ 
don. Go where he would, and try as he might to 
enjoy himself—his days were one long dissatisfac¬ 
tion, and his nights a yet longer unrest. 

It was while he was in London the second time 
that his mother’s letter came, suggesting that he 
call on Mrs. Martingale. 

More in accordance with his mother’s wishes than 
with his own, he found himself, before the week was 
162 


Tangled 163 

out, at Mrs. Martingale’s door. The welcome he re¬ 
ceived from the cordial little lady quite compensated 
him for his exertion in going, and almost stirred him 
from the listless boredom that had become habitual 
to him. It was when other callers had left them 
alone together that she said: 

“Dear me, Paul, I’m wonderfully glad to see you. 
It’s next to seeing your mother. How is she, and 
how is all the rest of Hampdon? By the way, Caro¬ 
line Sanderson is there now, isn’t she? You have 
met her, of course.” 

“Yes.” 

“And her cousin, Barbara?” 

Carew forced his eyes to look straight into hers. 

“Yes.” 

“Barbara is a dear—and so distractingly charm¬ 
ing,” continued Mrs. Martingale, with a keen glance. 
“I’ve known her from her babyhood days.” 

“From babyhood!” exclaimed Carew, in surprise. 
“Why, I thought you didn’t know her—only her 
mother.” 

“Oh, no, Paul; it’s Caroline that I didn’t know so 
well,” returned Mrs. Martingale. “As I wrote your 
mother a while ago I’ve known Caroline for a com¬ 
paratively short time, though her mother was an 
old schoolmate of mine; but Barbara I’ve known 
from babyhood days.” 

Paul Carew thought of these words as he walked 
back to the hotel a little later. 

“Strange,” he muttered, “I was sure it was Bar¬ 
bara that she knew so little, and Barbara’s mother 
that she knew so long ago.” 

Carew fell into the way of going often to the 
Martingale residence. He came to like Mrs. Mar- 


Hustler Joe 


164 

tingale greatly, and he thought her conversation 
wonderfully entertaining. That this same conver¬ 
sation had for its subject Barbara Sanderson, he did 
not realize, perhaps. There were delightfully inter¬ 
esting things in Barbara’s girlhood days, in her child¬ 
hood, and even in her babyhood—all of which Mrs. 
Martingale could tell charmingly. 

It was one night at a reception that Mrs. Mar¬ 
tingale said hurriedly in Carew’s ear: 

“Paul, here comes Frank Duvall, the one who’s 
engaged to Miss Sanderson. It’s not supposed to 
be out, so say nothing. I want you to meet him.” 

Carew’s lips tightened. The next moment he 
found himself looking into a pair of friendly gray 
eyes, and clasping firm, cordial fingers. 

“So this is the man that holds the happiness of 
Barbara Sanderson in the hollow of his hand,” 
thought Carew, scanning with critical eyes the face 
of the man before him. 

“I’m glad to meet you, Mr. Carew,” began Duvall, 
genially. “I’ve heard of you through Hampdon 
friends of mine. You know the Sanderson young 
ladies, I think.” 

“I have that pleasure,” acknowledged Carew, 
somewhat stiffly. He had decided at once that he 
did not like this man. “And you—know them 
well?” 

Duvall laughed, and raised his hand to his pointed 
beard. 

“Indeed,” he began, “I thought I did. With Miss 
Barbara I played housekeeping and mud pies in our 
pinafore days; with Miss Caroline, my acquaintance 
dates back three years; but when I heard of their 
recent escapade at masquerading I concluded there 


Tangled 165: 

were yet depths in their nature that I had not 
sounded.” 

“Then you’ve heard of that little game of Miss 
Caroline’s?” 

“Yes. I’m a distant connection of the family, 
and they are good enough to write me occasionally,” 
went on Duvall, with easy nonchalance. “They told 
me about it themselves. It must have been rich 
—but I didn’t think it of either of them. I wonder 
that Miss Barbara lent herself to such a wild scheme 
for a moment.” 

Carew frowned. 

“It was entirely her cousin’s idea from the start,” 
he returned with some dignity. “Mrs. Chetwood 
made the initial mistake, and Miss Caroline insisted 
upon its not being rectified. She preferred to let 
matters take their own course.” 

“But it was for so long!” 

“It was a good while,” acknowledged Carew. 
“Even Miss Caroline herself confessed that she had 
no idea of its being more than a few days before the 
whole thing would be found out; but, as for us, we 
never thought of questioning, and each day only 
added strength to their position. I would scarcely 
believe it could happen, myself, had I not seen it.” 

“Still,” said Duvall, with a shrug, “knowing Bar¬ 
bara as I do, I don’t see how she consented. She is 
so frank and outspoken, even to unconventionality, 
at times.” 

“Is she?” asked Carew, his lips closing with a 
snap. 

“Yes. As I said, I’ve known her all my life, and 
time and time again I’ve been vexed with that girl 
for always saying exactly what she thinks.” 

“Indeed,” rejoined Carew, his wrath rising. 


i66 


Hustler Joe 


An interruption came at that moment, and Carew 
was not sorry to see Duvall turn away. 

“So he is pleased to question and criticise his 
fiancee's conduct,” thought Carew. “And to me, 
too, confound him.” 


CHAPTER XIII 


C AREW saw a good deal of Duvall after that first 
meeting, in spite of his wishes to the contrary. 
And more than once his temper was tried to the 
breaking-point by Duvall's way of speaking of Bar¬ 
bara. There were a certain frankness, an easy tone 
of critical analysis, and a freedom of telling of Bar¬ 
bara's words and actions that angered Carew, and 
caused him to consider Duvall woefully lacking in 
delicacy. Of Caroline, Duvall seldom spoke. In¬ 
deed, his evident avoidance of the name finally at¬ 
tracted Carew's attention, and filled him with 
puzzled questioning. He was almost at the point 
of going to Mrs. Martingale for a solution of the 
mystery, when a note from that lady was placed 
in his hands. 

Carew shuddered as he opened the envelope, and 
saw once more the coarsely-penned writing that was 
already so indelibly impressed on his memory. 

My Dear Paul: 

Where have you been the past week? Not sick, I 
hope. I am going out of town for a fortnight—a series 
of flying visits to half a dozen houses—so I write that 
you may not have the- 

Carew turned the leaf and read the first line at the 
top of the second page. 

about you for your mother’s sake. 

167 



Hustler Joe 


168 

Carew eyed the words with a mystified frown, then 
turned back to the first page. 

Again had Molly Martingale skipped the second 
page and returning to it, had written it from side to 
side with no numbers to guide her readers aright; 
but this time the lack of sense in the connection 
speedily pointed to a mistake, and with a smile of 
understanding Carew skipped from the first page to 
the third and this time finished the letter without 
a break. 

It was the postscript, however, that brought a 
sudden cry of amazement from his lips. 

P. S.—I saw Duvall last night, and he says his en¬ 
gagement to Miss Sanderson will soon be announced. 
The dear boy positively radiated happiness. He told 
me all about his first meeting her three years ago, and 
of how it was a case of love at first sight—with him, 
certainly. 

M. M. 

Carew dropped the letter from his hand; then he 
snatched it up and read the postscript again, word 
by word. 

What could it mean? It was Caroline that Du¬ 
vall had known three years, not Barbara; yet there 
was the postscript staring him in the face, and that 
postscript unmistakably referred to Duvall’s fiancee . 
Was it possible, after all, that it was Caroline who 
was engaged to Duvall? But no—there was Mrs. 
Martingale’s letter to his mother months ago. 

Mechanically Carew’s gaze came back to the more 
recent letter in his hand; then a sudden cry broke 
from his lips. This letter had been read wrong at 
first; what if there had been a similar mistake in 
the other! It did not seem possible, and yet- 


Tangled 169 

Carew closed his eyes and tried to think. He 
summoned before him Duvall’s words and acts and 
weighed them in the light of this new idea. There 
was nothing that would deny it; on the other hand, 
there was much that would tend to confirm it. Mrs. 
Martingale, also, was brought upon memory’s wit¬ 
ness stand, and her evidence, too, went to prove that 
this new version might be the right one. Carew 
started from his chair and walked the floor, when it 
occurred to him that there already had been one 
mistake concerning that letter to Mrs. Carew—he 
and his mother had obtained an entirely erroneous 
impression regarding Mrs. Martingale’s acquaint¬ 
ance with the two girls. If there had been one 
mistake, why not another? 

Back and forth, back and forth paced Carew, try¬ 
ing to map out a course of action. To go to Mrs. 
Martingale was impossible now for two weeks. Du¬ 
vall was equally out of the question; the engagement 
was not supposed to be known yet. He might write 
to Mrs. Martingale’s town address, to be sure, but, 
from her letter, he judged that she would not be 
long in one place and even if her mail were for¬ 
warded to her, there was sure to be a vexatious delay 
in the reply. 

It was to Mrs. Martingale, however, that he 
finally wrote; and after posting the letter, he hurried 
down the street to send a cablegram to his mother, 
saying: 

Send by first steamer Mrs. Martingale’s letter, the 
one I read. 

Long days later the letter arrived and Carew, with 
shaking fingers, tore open the envelope and spread 


Hustler Joe 


170 

the pages before him. Acting upon the supposition 
that the letter had been written as was the one he 
had so recently received from Mrs. Martingale, he 
read the first page, then the third, going back to the 
second and finishing with the fourth. He almost 
shouted aloud when he saw how connectedly the 
pages followed each other; and as he reached the end 
where Mrs. Martingale spoke of the possibilities as 
having no chance of becoming probabilities because 
the “possibility” was already engaged—meaning 
Caroline—he dropped his face into his hands with 
a great sob of joy. 

If there was still a lingering doubt in Carew’s 
mind, it was forever silenced by Mrs. Martingale’s 
letter which came that night in reply to the one he 
had sent to her. 

My Dear Paul: 

Your very remarkable letter of one sentence has fol¬ 
lowed me about in a way that I know must have proved 
distractingly trying to your patience. But what do you 
mean by asking if it’s Barbara or Caroline that is en¬ 
gaged to Duvall? I should like to know if all this time 
you have not understood that it was Caroline—and never 
any one but Caroline? 

Short as your letter was, however, I read lots between 
the lines, and I know this will be a good-by letter to 
you, and that I shall not see you when I get back. You 
will take the next steamer home of course. (I only hope 
you won’t try to walk or swim!) Seriously, dear Paul, 
I wish you the very best of success, and I’m sure you’ll 
have it. 

Very cordially yours, 

Molly Martingale. 


CHAPTER XIV 


TN spite of the great joy in Carew’s heart on that 
homeward trip, the thought would come to him 
at times as to just what might be his welcome from 
Barbara. There had been a moment when he fancied 
he could translate the message of Barbara’s eyes; 
but days of silence and weeks of time had passed 
since then, and if he had read her eyes aright, what 
must she think of his sudden departure and long, 
wordless absence? 

As he pondered over the situation, he realized that 
she certainly could not know that he supposed her 
bound to another when he left. That she must have 
been puzzled, perhaps chagrined, he understood 
only too well; but of the full enormity of his conduct 
as it looked to both Barbara and Caroline, he had 
not the slightest suspicion. It was accordingly with 
a measure of confidence that he rang the bell at the 
Sanderson residence and asked if Miss Barbara San¬ 
derson were in. 

“She is not, sir,” said the maid. 

“Miss Caroline Sanderson?” 

“I will see,” she replied. 

Carew walked slowly into the reception room. 
The glorified light of eager expectancy that had been 
on his face when he ascended the steps was gone. 
The old fear was tugging at his heart, and his knees 
almost shook beneath him. He had hoped to see 
Barbara, and now, at the best, only Caroline was to 
greet his hungry eyes. 


171 


Hustler Joe 


172 

“Miss Sanderson will be down directly,” said the 
maid in the doorway; and a moment later Caroline 
stood before him. 

“Good-evening, Mr. Carew,” she murmured, with 
just the degree of warmth that politeness demanded, 
and just the degree of iciness that dignity deemed 
indispensable. 

Carew at once felt miles away, though he found 
the girl's slim fingers for a brief instant within his 
warm clasp. 

“Ah, good-evening, Miss Sanderson,” he began 
confusedly. “I am glad to see you. I—I have been 
away for some time,” he finished, saying the worst 
thing possible from the viewpoint of Caroline's 
wrath. 

“Away? Oh, yes—so you have,” smiled Caroline. 

“You are most unflattering,” remonstrated the 
man, trying to cut with playfulness the frost sur¬ 
rounding him. “I have been gone nearly three 
months, and only think how inconsequential I must 
consider myself after your last remark.” 

“Really, has it been three months?” smiled Caro¬ 
line again. “Time does fly, doesn’t it?” 

“It has not flown for me,” retorted Carew, with a 
sudden direct look into her eyes. 

Caroline stirred restlessly. She wished Carew 
would look somewhere else. She found her role of 
flippant unconcern difficult in the face of the dumb 
longing in the man’s eyes. 

“And did you not enjoy your trip?” she asked. 

“It was a business trip, at the start.” 

“Oh, yes—so you wrote,” Caroline murmured, 
then bit her lip in vexation. She had not meant to 
refer to that note. 

Carew caught at the straw. 


Tangled 173 

“Yes, to your cousin. She is not—in, this eve¬ 
ning?” 

“No. How is your mother, Mr. Carew? I have 
not seen her out for the past week.” 

“She caught cold a few days ago, but is better 
now, thank you. And your cousin—she is well?” 

“I think so.” 

“You think so! Isn’t she with you now?” 

“Oh, no; she left me some time ago. But, tell 
me, did you go to Paris—or anywhere except Lon¬ 
don? You haven’t told me of your trip.” 

“Indeed, I went anywhere—everywhere—an eter¬ 
nity of wheres,” returned Carew, recklessly, with a 
sudden determination to make a frank appeal to this 
somewhat baffling young woman opposite. “Miss 
Sanderson, will you not give me your cousin’s 
address?” 

“Oh, she’s not in the city at all,” rejoined Caro¬ 
line, pleasantly. “She has gone home. Your ‘eter¬ 
nity of wheres’ is quite confusing, Mr. Carew. Pray, 
tell me what does it mean?” 

“Surely you understand me,” persisted Carew, dis¬ 
regarding her question. “Surely you know that I 
am more than anxious to learn your cousin’s address. 
Where is her home? Won’t you tell me, please?” 

For a moment Caroline was silent. She had not 
looked for just this sort of plea, and she was in 
doubt how to meet it. 

“I—I don’t think I do quite—understand,” she 
said gravely, at last. 

“Then I’ll tell you,” returned Carew, in a low 
voice. “I love your cousin with the whole strength 
of my being. I want to ask her to be my wife.” 

“O-oh!” faltered Caroline, quivering with an 
ecstatic little thrill, notwithstanding her efforts to 


Hustler Joe 


174 

regard this presumptuous young man with the calm 
disdain her reason taught her so richly belonged 
to him. “Isn’t this rather—sudden?” she laughed, 
taking refuge in the trite phrase to hide her 
confusion. 

“Did I succeed, then, in, concealing my real feel¬ 
ings from you during the days before I went to 
London?” 

“Oh,” retorted Caroline, all the old scorn coming 
back to her voice. “I remember; you were with 
Houston, Livingstone, and the rest, weren’t you?” 

Carew grew white. 

“I don’t think you meant quite that, Miss Sander¬ 
son,” he said quietly. 

“Didn’t I?” repeated Caroline, with a shrug. 
“There was a difference, come to think of it; wasn’t 
there? They stayed, I remember, after the mistake 
about the rich Miss Sanderson was found out, while 
you ran away. Yes, there was a difference after 
all.” 

Then, and not till then, did Carew understand. 
The blood swept to his forehead, then receded leav¬ 
ing his face a gray white. He sprang to his feet and 
took one step toward the still smiling girl in the low 
chair. 

“And you believe—you thought me capable of— 
that?” He gasped. “Miss Sanderson, for Heaven’s 
sake, tell me where I can find Barbara!” 

Again that ecstatic thrill tingled to Caroline’s 
finger-tips; but she stubbornly held her ground. 

“Why should I?” she asked. “Do you—deserve 
it?” 

For a moment Carew faced her without speaking; 
then he dropped back into his chair and covered his 
eyes with his hand. 


Tangled 175 

“I will tell you the whole story,” he said simply, 
after a time, frankly meeting her eyes. “You shall 
then be the judge yourself.” 

It was some minutes later that a very penitent, 
tearful-eyed Caroline held out two trembling hands. 

“You are—splendid!” she choked. “I—I wish I 
had a dozen addresses of Barbara to give you!” 

“Thank you; I—I should much prefer one,” 
choked Carew, in his turn, clasping the outstretched 
hands and holding them fast in his. 


CHAPTER XV 


C AREW thought he had never seen a more beau¬ 
tiful spot than the little New England village 
whose name had been given him by Caroline. The 
moment he stepped from the train to the platform 
he began to see all things through the glorified 
haze cast about them by the nearness of the girl he 
loved. He smiled at the station-master, beamed on 
the stage-coach driver, and bestowed a fabulous tip 
on the boy who carried his bag to the great square 
room on the second floor of the village hotel. 

It was nine o’clock in the evening—too late for a 
call that night, Carew reluctantly decided, after a 
judicious survey of the rapidly darkening houses 
about the hotel; but the earliest possible moment 
the next morning found him at Barbara’s door. 

A tall, thin-lipped woman, wearing a calico dress 
and white apron answered his ring and opened the 
door a cautious twelve inches. 

“Good-morning, sir,” she said crisply. 
“Good-morning. I-” 

Carew hesitated; he was not quite sure of this 
very self-possessed woman before him. Then he 
took the bull by the horns. 

“I called to see Miss Sanderson—Miss Barbara 
Sanderson. Will you kindly hand her my card?” 

The woman took the bit of pasteboard somewhat 
gingerly, and ushered its owner into a darkened par¬ 
lor; then she left the room and rushed breathlessly 
into the kitchen. 


176 


Tangled 177 

“Barbara, who is it?” she cried, thrusting the card 
under Barbara’s nose. 

All the pretty rose color left Barbara’s cheeks only 
to come back in a flood to her whole face. 

“It’s Mr. Carew, Cousin Hannah, and I—I won’t 
see him.” 

“Won’t see him! Where’s he come from?” 

“Hampdon, I suppose.” 

The face opposite darkened. 

“Barbara,” demanded Hannah, “is that one of 
those men you were laughing about—the kind that 
worshiped you while you was rich and then snubbed 
you?” 

“Don’t be silly, Cousin Hannah,” stammered Bar¬ 
bara. “I—I just won’t see him, that’s all.” 

“He is—I know he is,” asserted Hannah, with 
shrewd nods of her head. “And you sha’n’t see him 
either. I’ll tell him you’re not at home. Now 
that’s all right, ain’t it? That ain’t a lie, ’cause 
folks understand. Ain’t that what they say in New 
York, and such places?” 

“Oh, Cousin Hannah—would you? could you?” 
cried Barbara, eagerly. 

“You just wait,” Hannah retorted majestically, 
and stalked from the room. 

In the parlor she faced the eager eyed young 
man with impassive calm. 

“Miss Sanderson is not at home,” she said icily. 

“Not—at—home!” stammered Carew. “I—I’m 
very sorry,” he added, rising to his feet. “I—I’ll 
call again.” 

And he left the house. 

Cousin Hannah looked troubled when she went 
back to the kitchen. 


178 Hustler Joe 

“Barbara,” she began, “are you just bound you 
won’t see him—at all?” 

“I certainly am,” declared Barbara, with tighten¬ 
ing lips. 

“Then you’ll have to run for it.” 

“Run for it!” 

“Yes, ma’am. He’s coming back; he said he was 
—and he looks like the kind that does what he says 
he will. You might go to Hampdon now for a visit,” 
she hazarded. 

“I—I will!” cried Barbara, after a dismayed pause. 
“I’ll go on the three o’clock train. Come—help me 
pack my things—there’s a dear!” 

In Barbara’s mind at that moment there was but 
one thought—to avoid Paul Carew at all costs. Why 
had he sought her out after this long silence she 
could not understand. Whatever the reason, she 
could not conceive of its being sufficient to palliate 
that same silence, or to cause her to forget his 
abrupt departure from Hampdon weeks ago. 

Conscious though she was of her unbounded anger, 
she yet dared not trust herself to meet Carew face to 
face—certainly not here. In Hampdon, with Caro¬ 
line at her right hand to help, and with society to 
spur her pride—there she might conquer this absurd 
weakness that threatened to overcome her whenever 
she thought of Carew’s eyes as they had burned into 
hers that last evening in Caroline’s drawing-room. 
Certainly—to Hampdon she would go! 

At fifteen minutes of three that day the lumbering 
stage-coach called for Barbara and carried her to the 
station. At exactly three o’clock on the same after¬ 
noon, Carew found himself again confronting the 
tall, thin-lipped woman at the door of Barbara’s 
home. 


Tangled 179 

“Is Miss Sanderson in now?” he asked. 

“No, sir, she is not,” snapped the thin lips. 

“Oh, I’m unfortunate indeed!” cried Carew in 
keen disappointment. “May I ask—can you tell 
me when I might find her in?” 

A wave of unmistakable triumph flushed the 
woman’s face. The town-clock struck three, and 
Cousin Hannah, confident now of the success of their 
scheme, flung caution to the winds. 

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” she vouchsafed. “Miss 
Sanderson took the three o’clock train to-day for 
Hampdon.” 


CHAPTER XVI 


I T was a dejected man indeed that slowly walked 
up the long street toward the hotel. Even when 
he reached the hotel-office and accosted its proprie¬ 
tor, he was dull-eyed and listless. 

“When is the next train for Hampdon?” 

“Well,” drawled the inn-keeper, “it’s s’posed to be 
at eight o’clock to-morrow morning by this time o’ 
day, most generally; but to-day the three o’clock 
train hain’t gone yet. There’s been an accident up 
to the junction, and the three o’clock’s ’most an 
hour late, they say; and—well, by jimminy!” he 
finished, as his recent questioner, now alert and 
bright-eyed, darted through the door and hurried 
down the street toward the station. 

In the shadowy corner of the stuffy little waiting- 
room sat Barbara alone. Carew opened the door 
and went straight to her side. 

“Oh!” cried Barbara, faintly; then she pulled her¬ 
self together with all her strength. “Why, Mr. 
Carew! ” Cousin Hannah would have gasped at the 
surprise in Barbara’s voice. 

“Miss Sanderson, you—you won’t go to Hamp¬ 
don,” pleaded Carew. 

“It looks very much as if I wouldn’t,” laughed 
Barbara, smoothly, “at this rate of progress, cer¬ 
tainly! Do you happen to know just how late that 
train is?” 

“Never mind the train, please,” begged Carew 
180 


Tangled 181 

again. “You—you won’t go even when it comes, 
will you?” 

There was an almost imperceptible movement of 
Barbara’s eyebrows. 

“Why, of course I shall,” she laughed. “Pray, 
what did I come here for, if I didn’t want to go to 
Hampdon.” 

“But I want to speak to you,” began the man, 
eagerly. 

“And you are, are you not?” smiled Barbara. 

He made an impatient gesture. 

“I mean—I want to speak particularly—to tell 
you something—to explain—” he stopped suddenly. 

“Oh, as to that,” retorted the girl, with fine in¬ 
difference, “there’s plenty of chance in Hampdon to 
talk to me, you know.” Then, with sudden anima¬ 
tion: “Haven’t you been in London, Mr. Carew? 
Didn’t you see Mrs. Martingale?” 

“Yes, but-” 

“I love Mrs. Martingale,” interrupted Barbara, 
feverishly. “I think her altogether charming; don’t 
you?” 

Carew threw a hurried glance about him. There 
was no one visible save the girl at his side. The 
ticket window was around the corner out of sight, 
and the waiting-room door was closed. Taking an 
envelope from an inner pocket, Carew pulled out a 
sheet of pale blue, coarsely written note-paper, and 
opened it before Barbara’s eyes. 

“Barbara,” he began hurriedly. 

At the name the girl started and would have 
spoken had not her eyes encountered a compelling 
gaze which held them against her will. 

“Barbara,” repeated Carew, and this time a note 
of tenderness brought the swift red to the girl’s 


Hustler Joe 


182 

cheeks, though the eyes still found themselves cap¬ 
tive. “I want you to read this letter as I read it 
weeks ago in Hampdon, the night before I left for 
London. Read the first page, the second, then the 
third and fourth.” 

Hardly conscious of what she did, Barbara took 
the note and dropped her eyes to the writing. 

“From Mrs. Martingale! ” she breathed wonder- 
ingly. 

As she read, the man watched. He saw the won¬ 
der give way to puzzled questioning, the questioning 
to amazement, the amazement to anger. Then be¬ 
fore her lips could frame a question after her eyes 
had finished the last word, he turned the letter to 
the beginning again. 

“Now read the note, please,” he said, “as Mrs. 
Martingale wrote it, and as I read it some days ago 
in London, the night before I left for home. Read 
the first page, then this,” pointing to the third, 
“then go back to the second and finish with the 
fourth.” 

Again as she read he watched, and this time he 
saw the light of a sudden comprehension break over 
her face. 

“And you thought—you believed that other was 
—true?” she demanded. 

Carew bowed his head. 

“Yes. To me that was your ‘secret’ and that was 
the ‘false position.’ ” 

“Oh!” breathed Barbara. 

At that moment a shrill whistle sounded far down 
the track. 

“Barbara, Barbara,” begged Carew, crushing the 
letter and the hands that held it, in his strong fingers. 
“You won’t go away now! Ah, Barbara, just think 


Tangled 183 

of the long, long weeks that letter lay like lead on 
my heart—and I loved you, loved you—ah, Barbara, 
how I loved you!” 

There was an instant’s hesitation, then the girl 
raised her eyes to his face. 

“No, I—I won’t go now,” she began; then breath¬ 
lessly she cried. “Oh, oh, how could you—here!” 

“How could I help it!” laughed Carew, softly. 
“Sweetheart, there’s never a soul that saw us, but— 
I think I should have kissed you then even if we’d 
been straight in the middle of New York’s Broad¬ 
way!” 






Ill: A VACATION EXCHANGE 



Ill: A VACATION EXCHANGE 

CHAPTER I 

O UT in the bam Fred and Anabel talked it over. 
They were up in the hayloft—their usual re¬ 
sort for such confidences. 

“But I don’t see how we are going to do it, Ana¬ 
bel/’ Fred was saying. “Folks that have vacations 
go into the country, and we are already in the coun¬ 
try.” 

“I know it,” acknowledged Anabel ruefully. 

“And there are the boys and girls in the story¬ 
books, too,” added Fred. “They are always going 
back on the farm to their grandmother’s. I don’t 
see why some of the grandfathers and grandmothers 
can’t live in the city!” 

“They never do,” murmured Anabel. “I never 
heard of any that did, anyhow.” 

“Even the poor folks in cities have vacations,” 
went on Fred plaintively. “There are those Fresh- 
Air children down at the Wilsons’—they came from 
Boston. I—I wish the folks that sent them here 
would send us to Boston! I’m sure we need it as 
much as they do.” 

“Humph!” exclaimed Anabel. “Susie Hopkins 
told me that Mrs. Van-something said that we folks 
here had vacations all the time, just because we lived 
here. For my part, I don’t see why people make 
such fuss over just trees and grass. I’d much rather 
have people and store windows!” 

187 


i88 Hustler Joe 

“And fire engines and trolley cars,” supplemented 
Fred. 

“And automobiles!” 

“And policemen!” 

“And houses and houses just as far as you can 
see,” added Anabel, making a wide sweep with her 
arms. “0 Fred, I wish we could go!” 

“Let’s go ask Aunt Ellen,” cried Fred suddenly, 
swinging himself down from his perch. “Maybe 
she’ll coax Aunt Kate to ask us down there for two 
weeks. You know we did stay there once for two 
days, four years ago. You were only six, but I 
remember it, and ’twas just great! Come on, let’s 
ask her.” 

Down the stairs, across the barn floor and out into 
the yard raced four eager feet. Some minutes later 
they came slowly back toward the barn door, their 
owners sad-faced and disappointed. 

Aunt Ellen had said “No”—kindly but very de¬ 
cidedly. Ask Aunt Kate to take two noisy children 
in her tiny, little city flat for two whole weeks? 
Certainly not! That was entirely out of the ques¬ 
tion. 

It was only a week later that Miss Ellen Haywood 
received a letter from her old friend and schoolmate, 
Mrs. William Marston, known to Fred and Anabel 
all their lives as “Aunt Kate.” The letter was long 
and closely written, but not until the fourth page 
was turned did Miss Haywood suddenly lean for¬ 
ward in her chair and read with closer attention. 

“As for a vacation,” the letter ran, “I haven’t the 
slightest idea what to do. Sickness, and one thing and 
another have made our expenses rather heavy this year, 
so we don’t feel that we can spend much money. But 


A Vacation Exchange 189 

we all need a change, and the children in particular are 
longing for the country. It costs money, however, to 
take four people to one of these summer resorts for two 
weeks, and we feel that it is quite out of the question for 
us this year. 

“Lilian is waiting to take this to the box, so I must 
close. 

“Lovingly yours, 

“Kate Marston. 

“P. S.—It has occurred to me that it would be just 
like your generous self to invite Ralph and Lilian to 
the farm for two weeks; so I will tell you right now that 
I shouldn’t allow such a thing for a moment. You have 
quite enough cares of your own without adding any more 
in the shape of my children. So, mind, now! 

“Kate.” 

Miss Haywood sat quite still for some time after 
she had finished reading the letter. She was evi¬ 
dently thinking, and thinking very hard. After a 
while she rose to her feet, crossed the room and 
seated herself at her writing desk. 

For nine years now—ever since Anabel was one 
year old—Ellen Haywood had been a second mother 
to her brother’s orphaned children. It seemed to 
her sometimes that she could not have loved them 
more had they really been her own. As for the chil¬ 
dren—to them Aunt Ellen stood for everything that 
was good and desirable from breakfasts and clean 
pinafores to kisses and bedtime frolics. Miss Hay¬ 
wood knew this feeling and rejoiced in it; and never 
was she quite so happy as when planning some pleas¬ 
ant surprise for their enjoyment. She smiled now 
as she wrote, and she was still smiling when the let¬ 
ter was finished. 

At dusk, Jim Dolan, who ran the farm on shares 
for Miss Haywood, drove to town. In his pocket he 


Hustler Joe 


190 

carried a letter directed to Mrs. William Marston. 
And this was the letter. 

“My Dear Kate: 

“Your letter has given me an idea. I have been think¬ 
ing it over, and now I am going to give it to you and let 
you do the same. The case is just this: Your children 
want to come to the country for a vacation, and my 
children want to go to the city. We older ones, too, 
might not object to a little change of air and scene. 
What do you say to exchanging places for two weeks? 
We to take your flat in Boston, and you to take our 
farmhouse here in Fletcherville? We have a good man 
and woman here now who take charge of the farm itself, 
so you need not fear that you and Mr. Marston will 
have too much care. 

“My idea is that we each go into the other’s house and 
use it as if it were our own. The expense would be only 
the fares each way, and the cost of living for the two 
weeks; yet we should all have a change, and a real vaca¬ 
tion from familiar things. We should be ready to ‘ex¬ 
change’ by Monday, the first day of July, if you would. 
Let me hear what you think of the plan. 

“Lovingly yours, 

“Ellen B. Haywood.” 

In the tiny dining-room of the Marston’s Boston 
flat the entire Marston family had met to talk over 
a certain wonderful letter that had come in the 
night’s mail. 

“I’m not sure but that it’s a good plan,” said Mr. 
Marston, when the clamorous excitement of Ralph 
and Lilian subsided sufficiently for him to make him¬ 
self heard. “It wouldn’t cost much—and we 
should get a vacation.” 

“How is it, children? Do you really want to go?” 
smiled Mrs. Marston. 

“Want to go!” cried Ralph and Lilian together. 
“Of course, we do!” 


A Vacation Exchange 191 

“And they want to come here, too; so it isn’t all 
for us,” added Lilian anxiously. 

Half an hour later it was settled: they all would 
be ready to start on July first, remaining at the 
farmhouse until Saturday of the next week, which 
would be almost two weeks. It was a very excited 
boy and girl, therefore, that went to bed in the two 
little, connecting bedrooms off the hall. 

Ralph was almost asleep when the door between 
the two rooms opened a crack and Lilian’s voice 
called in a hoarse whisper: 

“Ralph, won’t it be great!” 

“Won’t it!” crowed Ralph, wide-awake on the 
instant. 

“Only think—trees and grass everywhere, just as 
if we were living in a park,” added Lilian; “and big 
fields with daisies and buttercups!” 

“And fishing and swimming!” 

“And places that aren’t deep where you wade!” 

“And horses!” 

“And chickens!” 

“And cows!” 

There was a pause, then Lilian drew a long 
breath. “Ralph I don’t see how Fred and Anabel 
can want to leave all those nice things and come to a 
horrid, hot city!” 

“Neither do I.” 

“And live in six tiny mites of rooms with nothing 
to look at but brick walls and stone pavements,” 
continued Lilian. 

“But they do, Lilian,” reminded Ralph anxiously. 
“They said they wanted to come, and you know 
they did like it when they were here three or four 
years ago.” 


192 Hustler Joe 

“I know; but we had a house out in Roxbury 
then/' said Lilian. ‘They never saw this place.” 

“Pooh! they’ll like it: of course they’ll like it,” 
asserted Ralph, dropping back onto his pillow. 
“Anyhow, they’ve proposed it, and it isn’t our fault 
if they don’t have a good time.” 

“Of course not,” agreed Lilian, as she pattered 
back to bed. 

At a little past noon, a few days later, the Mar- 
stons and the Haywoods met at the junction of two 
railroads. 

The two trains stopped for a brief ten minutes for 
refreshments, and the two families made the most of. 
their time. At one end of the luncheon counter Mr. 
Marston ate apple pie and smiled indulgently at his 
wife and Miss Haywood who were eating chicken 
sandwiches and telling each other which cupboards 
and closets contained dishes, and which contained 
sheets and tablecloths. Near by, Ralph, Lilian, 
Fred and Anabel were eating—they scarcely knew 
what—so busy were they, all talking at once of 
brooks, fire engines, picnics and trolley cars. 

Clanging bells and'cries of “All aboard” sent the 
three Haywoods hurrying in one direction, and the 
four Marstons in another. Then the great wheels 
moved and the two trains rumbled out of the station 
—one carrying the Haywoods toward Boston, and 
the other carrying the Marstons toward Fletcher- 
ville. 

“Fred and Anabel seemed just as pleased to go to 
the city as we did to leave it, Lilian,” cried Ralph 
triumphantly, as their train started. “Did you 
notice?” 

Lilian nodded. 

“Yes; and, Ralph, did you hear? I tried to get 


A Vacation Exchange 193 

Anabel to tell me where to pick daisies, and she said: 
‘Daisies? Why, you can find them in any old place; 
but I shouldn’t think you’d care for daisies after all 
the pretty things you’ve seen!’ ” 

“I know,” laughed Ralph. “Fred asked me how 
soon I supposed there’d be a fire. He wants to see 
the fire engines. As if I knew when the next fire 
was going to be!” 

At half past two the four Marstons stepped from 
the train to the platform of a small, country station, 
and climbed into the open stage which they were to 
take for their two mile drive to the farmhouse. 

“Pooh! who’d want a trolley car with this!” ex¬ 
claimed Ralph. 

“H’m, who would!” gurgled Lilian, fairly hugging 
herself with delight. 

At the end of the two miles they found a rambling 
old farmhouse, and with shouts of delight Ralph and 
Lilian jumped from the stage and began to explore 
everything in sight, while Mr. and Mrs. Marston, 
almost as excited as their children, hurried into the 
house to find a delightful welcome in the shape of 
bread, cake, pies and cold chicken in the pantry. 

From the very beginning the trip had been a keen 
delight to both Fred and Anabel. To them every¬ 
thing was wonderfully fascinating, from the brass 
buttons on the conductor’s coat to the chocolates in 
the newsboy’s basket; and it was with dancing feet 
that they followed their aunt down the car steps 
when the train rolled into the great North Station 
in Boston. Everywhere were people, people and 
more people. Anabel fairly held her breath, and 
when she reached the great waiting room and found 
more and yet more people, she gave one long “Oh-h 
my!” 


Hustler Joe 


194 

“Pooh! this isn’t much,” observed Fred airily, 
who, being two years older remembered Boston 
somewhat more vividly than his ten-year-old sister. 
“You just wait till you see the streets with whole 
streams of people that never, never stop going!” he 
finished recklessly, determined to make his state¬ 
ment as impressive as possible. 

Outside the station the three climbed up, up, up 
to the elevated railroad high above the street, which 
was still more to Anabel’s wonderment. 

“There! this isn’t much like the Fletcherville 
stage, is it?” cried Fred triumphantly, as their train 
started. 

“I just guess it isn’t,” retorted Anabel; then she 
broke off short with a cry of amazement. “Why, 
Fred, we’re going straight down into a hole in the 
ground!” 

^ “Hm-m,” nodded Fred, trying to look uncon¬ 

cerned. “It’s the subway, you know. How do you 
like it?” 

There was no reply. Anabel was too absorbed in 
the wonders of this marvelous “hole in the ground” 
to speak at all. 

At Park Street they changed for an open car and 
with a cry of delight sped through the long tunnel 
that reached far ahead with its twinkling lights. 
Five minutes later they were once more out in the 
open air trying to look four ways at once as the 
trolley car whizzed up Boylston Street and Hunt¬ 
ington Avenue. 

“Why, you just can’t see everything,” bemoaned 
Anabel. 

“We shall be getting off pretty soon,” smiled Aunt 
Ellen, “then you will have a chance to look about 
you.” 


A Vacation Exchange ig$ 

It was not a long walk down the side street to the 
big apartment house that contained the Marston flat, 
and Miss Haywood was soon fitting the key that 
Mr. Marston had given her at the junction into the 
great front door. To Anabel the leaded glass, shin¬ 
ing letter boxes and tiled floor of the vestibule looked 
very grand. She raised her chin just a little higher 
—for two whole weeks she was to live in all this 
magnificence! She even thought pityingly of Ralph 
and Lilian who might at that very moment be en¬ 
tering the plain, weather-beaten farmhouse door at 
home. Then her eyes fell on the row of brass speak¬ 
ing tubes gaping at her just over the letter boxes. 

“Aunt Ellen, what are those things?” she de¬ 
manded, shivering a little—there was something al¬ 
most uncanny in th^se round, black holes. 

Aunt Ellen laughed. 

“Those, my dear, are speaking tubes. If Aunt 
Kate were here we should press this little button, 
and that would ring a bell in her hall. Down here 
I should put my ear to this tube, and by and by 
I should hear her voice and a little click that would 
open the door for me—if she wanted me to come 
in.” 

“And can we do that?” asked Fred eagerly. 

“Certainly.” 

Fred glanced at his sister. His look said, “Just 
you wait, Anabel, and see if we don't have fun with 
that!” 

The Marston’s suite was on the second floor, and 
after entering the big door the Haywoods had only 
to climb one flight of stairs, turn to the right and 
unlock another door to find themselves in a long, 
narrow corridor—the Marstons' private hall. With 


Hustler Joe 


196 

a whoop of delight Fred and Anabel dashed away on 
a tour of inspection. 

For a time their voices rang out merrily, then 
there came a long silence. In the dining room Ana¬ 
bel had paused with almost a frightened look on her 
face. 

“Fred, what makes it so dark?” she whispered. 

“I don’t know. Let’s find out,” he cried, raising 
the window and pushing up the screen so that he 
might lean far out. 

Sixteen feet below him was a cement pavement. 
On all sides, and but a few feet away, rose white¬ 
washed walls bristling with windows. Far above 
was a tiny square of pale blue sky. 

“It’s a great big chimney with windows in it,” 
announced Fred, excitedly, drawing back into the 
room. 

“It’s an air shaft, my dear,” laughed Aunt Ellen, 
coming into the dining room with some dishes in her 
hand. Miss Haywood, like Mrs. Marston, had found 
a store of good things to eat in the pantry. 

“An air shaft!” cried Anabel, running across the 
room, and in her turn peering out the window. “And 
is that all they have to—see?” she asked in a horri¬ 
fied tone of voice. 

“That is all they can see from the inside rooms,” 
returned Aunt Ellen with a smile. 

Anabel said nothing, but for the second time that 
day a feeling of pity for Lilian came over her— 
only this time the pity had nothing whatever to do 
with Lilian’s having to enter the old, weather-beaten 
farmhouse door at home. 


CHAPTER II 


HEN Mrs. Marston called Ralph and Lilian 



VV in to eat their first meal at the farmhouse, 
she had to call three times before she received any 
response. Then two excited children came from the 
barn, both talking at once. 

“Oh, mother, it’s perfectly lovely!” cried Lilian. 

“Mother, do you suppose we can stay the whole 
two weeks?” demanded Ralph anxiously. “You see, 
I’m so afraid Fred and Anabel will back out and 
come home. You know there isn’t anything down 
to our house like this—not anything!” 

“I know, dear; but perhaps Fred and Anabel want 
something different,” suggested Mrs. Marston. 

“But, mother, how can they?” protested Lilian, 
as she dropped breathlessly down to the well-laden 
table. 

“Now this is living,” sighed Mr. Marston an hour 
later, as he seated himself on the cool porch at his 
wife’s side. “Where are the children?” 

“They ran a race to the big tree down the road. 
Really, my dear, I don’t know but ’twas a mistake, 
after all—this coming here. I don’t know how we’re 
going to get them away, contentedly.” 

Far down the road Ralph and Lilian had found an 
ant hill swarming with agitated little creatures that 
had been disturbed by Ralph’s foot. 

“They look like little black beads strung three on a 
string, don’t they?” cried Lilian interestedly. 

For some time the children watched the ants in 


197 


198 Hustler Joe 

silence, then they sprang to their feet and wandered 
down the road. Suddenly Lilian stopped and looked 
about her. On both sides of them were trees and 
bushes; the road had entered a wood. Curious 
little sounds came out of the shadows, and to Lilian 
it seemed as if the shadows themselves moved. 

“Ralph/’ she shivered, “we ought to go back. 
See, it’s ’most dark.” 

Ralph, too, had grown suddenly silent, and had 
begun to peer cautiously about him. 

“Oh, it isn’t dark yet,” he said, lifting his chin. 
“Still, we might go back, maybe,” he finished with 
assumed bravery as he turned around. 

Once out of the woods the road stretched ahead in 
a long, unbroken line. Far at the end of it were the 
dim outlines of buildings, the only ones in sight. 

“Is it there? Away there, that we have to go?” 
demanded Lilian. 

“Of course it is,” returned Ralph, grown suddenly 
brave in reality now that the Haywood farmhouse 
was in sight. 

“But they haven’t lighted up anywhere,” pro¬ 
tested Lilian. “There isn’t a single street lamp 
going.” 

“Pooh!” sniffed Ralph disdainfully. “Who do 
you think is coming ’way out here from Fletcherville 
to light street lamps?” he demanded. “Farm folks 
don’t have street lamps.” 

“You don’t mean that it’s dark—pitch dark every¬ 
where here all night?” cried Lilian. At Ralph’s 
nod of assent she felt, for the first time in her life, 
actually sorry for Anabel—who had to live in the 
dark every night! 

At that moment from far up the road came a shrill 
call. Mr. and Mrs. Marston had suddenly awakened 


A Vacation Exchange 199 

to the fact that the children had not been seen for 
some time, and they had come to look for them. 

On the stone wall after breakfast the next morn¬ 
ing, Ralph and Lilian discussed what they should 
do for the day. They had not quite decided when 
they spied a girl and a boy of about their own age 
coming along the road toward them. The strangers 
walked more and more slowly, finally stopping not 
ten feet from where Ralph and Lilian were sitting. 

For a moment no one spoke; then the girl in the 
road said: 

“Hello!” 

Ralph and Lilian looked at each other. It cer¬ 
tainly did not seem polite not to reply to this little 
girl’s greeting; but on the other hand, there were 
mother’s express commands that they must have 
nothing whatever to do with strange children. 

“See here,” said the boy fiercely, “didn’t you hear 
my sister speak to you? Why don’t you answer? 
Maybe you think just because you came from the 
city that we are not good enough for you to notice. 
I say, hello!” 

There was absolute silence from the stone wall. 
Ralph and Lilian were too amazed to speak. There 
was a moment’s wait, then the girl in the road said 
angrily: 

“I told Anabel Haywood I’d come to see you and 
show you ’round; but I wish I hadn’t, and I’m going 
straight home!” And she turned and began to 
march majestically back by the way she had come. 

Behind her, however, there was sudden commo¬ 
tion. Ralph and Lilian almost tumbled from the 
wall with faces suddenly very much alight. 

“Do you know Anabel Haywood?” panted Lilian 
in amazement; while Ralph cried eagerly: “Then 


200 


Hustler Joe 

we can play with you, can’t we? Who are you, any¬ 
how? What’s your name?” 

The girl in the road stopped short. She half 
turned and looked back. The boy answered for 
her. 

“She’s Susie Hopkins,” he began, his voice still 
showing some trace of anger; “and I’m her brother, 
Joe. Anabel said you were coming, and she made us 
promise we’d come up, ’cause she was afraid you’d 
be lonesome. And we came; but I guess we’ll go 
back,” he finished suddenly, his head once more in 
the air. 

“Go back!” cried Lilian. “Well, I just guess you 
won’t go back! Why, you don’t know how glad we 
are to see you. We are just longing for some one 
to tell us what to do and where to go!” 

Joe hesitated, then smiled sheepishly. 

“Been down to the brook?” he asked, turning to 
Ralph. 

Ralph shook his head. 

“Then come on,” cried Joe; and the boys raced 
away, closely followed by Susie and Lilian, hand 
In hand. 

Long before supper that first night in the Marston 
flat, Aunt Ellen lighted the gas in the dining room, 
and in the narrow, dark hall; and, owing to the ex¬ 
citement of seeing lamps that had neither wicks nor 
oil, Anabel soon forgot all about that strange air 
shaft outside the dining room windows. But after 
she had gone to bed that night, she began to think 
about it again. 

“I wonder if I’ve got one,” she cried softly. “I’m 
going to see.” And forthwith she slipped out of 
bed and pattered over to the window. 


A Vacation Exchange 201 

Aunt Ellen had left both shade and window raised 
for air, and Anabel had little difficulty in pushing 
up the screen. It was then that she gave an ex¬ 
cited little cry and settled herself comfortably on 
her knees. 

Above, below, and on, all sides were brightly 
lighted windows, and in many of them the shades 
were up, giving views of the rooms beyond. Di¬ 
rectly opposite, two boys were playing dominoes. 
Below, sat a man reading. In another window a 
woman was fanning herself between nods. In still 
another a glimpse was caught of a pillow fight be¬ 
tween two girls. 

For a minute Anabel watched in rapt silence, then 
she rose to her feet and ran to the door that con¬ 
nected with her brother’s room. 

“Fred, are you awake?” she called softly. 

“Huh?” Fred’s voice was sleepy. 

“Get up,” urged Anabell. “Go look out your 
window and see if you’ve got boys and girls and 
pillow fights and everything. I have!” 

“If I’ve got wh-at?” demanded Fred, now thor¬ 
oughly awake. 

Anabel chuckled. 

“Look out of your window!” she said again, and 
hurried back to her own. 

She had scarcely fallen on her knees and taken up 
her old position, when, close by, another head popped 
out on a level with her own. She gave a frightened 
start, then a scream of delight. 

“Fred, Fred, why it’s you—right here!” she cried 
joyously. 

“Course it is! Our windows are next to each 
other,” returned Fred. “Say, Anabel, isn’t this 


202 Hustler Joe 

great? Pooh! who wants to sleep when all this is 
going on!” 

“I thought you’d want to see,” crowed Anabel 
from her window, and she laughed gleefully. 

The laugh came back to her with a hollow echo, 
which so amused her that she tried it again; where¬ 
upon Fred, with his hands to his mouth, made the 
air shaft ring with curious shouts and catcalls just 
to hear the hollow echo give them back. 

The woman woke up, the man stopped reading 
and the boys ceased their game, but Fred and Anabel 
paid no heed. Suddenly a screen in a window 
above banged open, and an angry voice said: 

“See here, can’t you be quiet down there? What 
do you mean by making such a racket?” 

There was no reply. A somewhat scared boy and 
girl had drawn back their heads and softly closed 
their screens. 

“Say, Anabel,” called Fred in a hoarse whisper 
from his side of the door, “seems to me folks in 
Boston are pretty fussy!” 

“I should say so!” snapped Anabel, pattering 
back to bed. “We weren’t doing one bit of harm!” 

The Haywoods were early astir the next morning, 
and everyone was eager for the fun to begin. 

“I think we’ll go around the city today,” said 
Aunt Ellen at the breakfast table. “There are the 
beaches and lots of trolley rides that can come later; 
but first I think we’d better see something of Boston 
itself.” 

At nine o’clock they started. Fred and Anabel 
were so excited that they could only dance along on 
their toes, and even Aunt Ellen scarcely felt the 
pavement beneath her feet. 

It had been Miss Haywood’s intention to take one 


A Vacation Exchange 203 

of the “Seeing Boston” cars or automobiles, and 
make a tour of the points of interest in and about 
the city; but long before the Public Garden en¬ 
trance to the subway was reached, she had decided 
to postpone such a trip until another time, realizing 
that merely to see the streets, crowds and store 
windows was trip enough for that first day. 

At Park Street, therefore, they left the car and 
began to climb the long flight of stairs that led from 
the subway to the street. It took no little per¬ 
suasion, however, to get Fred to leave the huge 
underground chamber with its throngs of men, 
women and children, and its clanging trolley cars 
and elevated railroad trains. 

“Come, come, Fred,” urged Aunt Ellen from the 
stairway. 

“Yes, I’m coming,” rejoined Fred, his feet walking 
one way and his eyes looking another—which 
promptly brought disaster in the shape of a collision 
with a stout old gentleman. 

“Oh, sir, I beg your pardon,” apologized Fred, 
contritely. “I didn’t see you.” 

“Humph!” growled the old man a little sourly. 
“I don’t see how you could have seen me unless you 
had eyes in the back of your head!” 

Fred laughed—but it was noticed that after that 
he walked and looked in one and the same direction. 

For three hours the Haywoods tramped the nar¬ 
row, winding streets, with frequent side trips into 
the big stores, and with many stops before the great 
plate glass windows. At half past twelve the three 
entered a restaurant for dinner. The mirror-lined 
walls and marble floors filled both Fred and Anabel 
with awed delight, and almost timidly they followed 


204 Hustler Joe 

their aunt to one of the pretty white tables and sat 
down. 

Anabel had scarcely become accustomed to her 
new surroundings when a white-aproned young 
woman placed before her a large card covered with 
the names of more kinds of food than Anabel had 
supposed there were in the world. For some min¬ 
utes she stared at the card in silence, as the others 
seemed to be doing; then she pulled her aunt’s 
sleeve. 

“Aunt Ellen, what is it?” she whispered. “What 
do I do with it?” 

“It’s the bill of fare, dear. It just tells you what 
they have for you to eat.” 

Anabel’s mouth fell open. 

“But, auntie, there’s such a lot of it! I never can 
eat it all!” 

“You don’t have to eat it all, dear,” explained 
Aunt Ellen smilingly. “You just pick out what you 
like best.” 

“Oh!” sighed Anabel, as she picked up the card. 
“That will be easy.” 

It was not easy, however, after all; for one could 
not eat roast turkey, chicken pie, peach fritters, 
green peas, corn, asparagus, strawberry shortcake, 
Washington pie, chocolate pudding, angel cake and 
ice cream all at once, no matter if one did like them 
best; and how, pray, was one to select a paltry two 
or three from all that? It was done, however, at 
last, with Aunt Ellen’s help, and the roast turkey, 
corn, ice cream and angel cake tasted wonderfully 
good. 

After dinner they walked slowly through one of 
the cross streets to the Common with its beautiful 
tree-shaded lawns and paths. Fred, in particular, 


A Vacation Exchange 205 

was delighted. He knew by heart the story of the 
boys of long ago who won the victory over the 
annoying British soldiers; and he gazed at the “frog 
pond” with almost reverent interest. 

From the Common they went to the Public Gar¬ 
den which, in its summer costume of crotons, lan- 
tanas, rubber trees and palms, was a veritable para¬ 
dise of shrubs and flowers. 

It was nearly six o’clock when the Haywoods 
reached the Marston flat, and almost immediately 
after supper Fred and Anabel went to bed. They 
thought they had never been so tired in their lives. 
Fred was almost asleep when his sister’s drowsy 
voice came to his ears. 

“Say, Fred, I should think that some time all 
those people that we saw today would want to get 
in exactly the same place at exactly the same minute, 
and, Fred, if they did, what would happen?” 


CHAPTER III 


N the second morning their arrival at the farm- 



house, Lilian announced that Susie and Joe 
Hopkins were coming over to take them fishing; 
and at a little past nine o’clock Ralph, Joe, Lilian 
and Susie started down the road toward the woods. 

“I don’t think I’ll catch any more than twenty 
today,” volunteered Ralph, after a time. “I want 
to save some for the next trip.” 

Joe threw a scornful glance over his shoulder. 

“Humph!” he grunted. “Just as if you could tell 
now how many fish you’re going to catch!” 

“Well, why not?” demanded Ralph stoutly. “I 
only said I was going to stop when I had twenty 
caught.” 

Joe gave another scornful glance; then he chuckled 
unexpectedly. 

“But what if you don’t catch twenty?” he chal¬ 
lenged. 

“Oh, but I shall,” retorted Ralph airily. “I’m 
going to stay long enough for that.” 

This time Joe laughed outright. 

“Stay long enough!” he retorted. “It takes all 
day sometimes to catch even one fish; and I have 
been when I haven’t even caught that.” 

Ralph stopped short where he was. 

“All day!” he repeated incredulously, “and not 
one fish! Why, where’s the fun of fishing if you 
don’t catch anything? And you said ’twas fun!” 

Joe shook his head. 


208 


A Vacation Exchange 207 

“I don’t know, but—’tis,” he said slowly; and 
though Ralph thought it no answer at all, it is 
doubtful if he would have obtained a much more 
satisfactory one from a far older fisherman than 
Joe. 

It was some distance through the woods to the 
place where the hurrying little brook paused long 
enough to make a series of broad, quiet pools; but 
once there, Joe threw down his basket and got out 
his fishing tackle with a wonderfully professional 
air. 

“There,” he said; “now I’ll show you!” 

In due time four hooks plumped into the water 
making myriads of little circles that crossed and 
recrossed each other from shore to shore; and four 
pair of eyes gazed unwinkingly at a point where 
line and water met. 

One, two, three minutes passed. Lilian hitched 
restlessly. 

“Say, isn’t it pretty here?” she began in a hoarse 
whisper. 

“Sh-h!” warned Joe. 

Four, five, six minutes passed. Susie coughed 
gently. 

“Sh-h!” warned Joe again, making a much louder 
noise than Susie had made with her cough. 

Seven, eight, nine minutes passed. Lilian hitched 
a second time. 

“Well, if this is what you call fishing,” she began 
in a grieved whisper; but a shout from Ralph inter¬ 
rupted. 

“Hi, there! I’ve got one! ” he burst out. 

“Oh, pshaw!” exclaimed Joe. “What if you have? 
Why couldn’t you keep still? I had a great big 
fellow, and he was just going to bite!” 


208 


Hustler Joe 


There was no answer. Ralph was on his feet, 
gazing blankly at his hook which was dangling high 
in the air. 

“Why, I haven’t even the bait!” he shrieked. 

Joe dropped his pole with a resigned sigh, and 
arose to his feet. 

“Look here! How do you suppose you are going 
to catch any fish with such a rumpus going on?” 
he demanded. “Here, let me fix it. You didn’t get 
your bait on properly and the first nibbler walked 
off with it. There,” he finished, as he handed the 
pole back, “now we’ll see!” And he dropped once 
more into his old position. 

It was four o’clock when the fishermen started for 
home, taking a roundabout way through fields and 
pastures. Half-way they met Jim Dolan, who had 
charge of the Haywood farm. 

“Hello!” he greeted them. “Where’ve you been 
all day?” 

“Fishing. Had a tip-top time,” returned Ralph 
gleefully. 

“So? How many did you catch?” 

Ralph’s face fell. He hesitated, and shifted from 
one foot to the other. Then he uptilted his chin. 

“Well, we didn’t catch anything, but we had just 
as good a time as if we had!” 

Joe, on the other side of the road, gave a sudden 
laugh. 

“Where’s the fun of fishing if you don’t catch any¬ 
thing?” he called derisively. 

Ralph frowned. Where had he heard those words 
before? They sounded strangely familiar. Then 
he suddenly recollected. 

“I don’t care,” he retorted, with a shameful grin, 
“’twas fun, anyhow!”—which only proves that 


A Vacation Exchange 209 

Ralph was a very good fisherman, after all, in spite 
of his empty basket. 

“I’m thinking/’ said Aunt Ellen the second morn¬ 
ing after their arrival at the Marston flat, "I’m 
thinking that today we’ll take a trip in that big auto 
that we saw when we were on the way home yester¬ 
day.” 

"And sit ’way up on one of those big, long seats?” 
cried Anabel. "And ride without any horse in 
front?” 

"Yes.” 

"And be hollered at by the man with the big red 
horn?” supplemented Fred. 

"Yes, by the man with the megaphone,” rejoined 
Aunt Ellen, with a smile. "He’ll tell us all about 
everything. We’ll take the Historical Tour. I got 
one of their circulars yesterday, and we’ll study his¬ 
tory with the real things instead of with books.” 

Fred looked dubious. The very word history car¬ 
ried a measure of terror. He remembered his last 
examination. 

"We could leave the history trip until later, Aunt 
Ellen,” he suggested hesitatingly. "You know there 
are other things that we don’t want to miss—the 
beach, and the park where the bears and lions are.” 

Aunt Ellen laughed. 

"Don’t worry, Fred. You’ll like it all right when 
we get started,” she promised. 

It was a short ride to the place where the big auto¬ 
mobile was stationed, and the Haywoods were soon 
climbing into one of the seven long seats that held 
four apiece. When the huge car started some min¬ 
utes later it was almost full, and Fred whooped with 
delight as the big man on the front seat gave a twist 


210 


Hustler Joe 

to his wheel, and they were off. But almost imme¬ 
diately Fred’s face fell—a second man on the front 
seat had risen and faced about, lifting the mega¬ 
phone to his lips as he did so. 

“Now for the history and a dozen stupid dates!” 
thought Fred in vexation; then he suddenly pricked 
up his ears. 

“It was formerly used as a dumping ground,” the 
man was saying; and Fred stared in amazement at 
the beautifully kept lawns and paths of the Public 
Garden, and tried to picture all its green loveliness 
transformed into a heap of ashes, papers and cans. 

For only a moment, however, was Fred allowed 
to think of this, for the auto had reached the old 
Central Burying Ground, and the lecturer was shout¬ 
ing out the names of some of the people buried there 
—names which seemed to range all the way from 
that of a noted portrait painter to the one borne by 
the originator of a famous soup! 

Fred began to get interested. This man with the 
big red horn might not be much of a terror, after all. 
Fred even forgot all about the dreaded history, and 
listened attentively. 

Down Tremont Street lumbered the big auto, 
giving the Haywoods a glimpse of the great gilded 
dome of the State House, which, when aglow with 
its thousand lights, the man declared could be seen 
fifty miles out at sea. The man said something, 
too, about the whipping posts, and the place where 
certain witches were hanged. Still more to Fred’s 
amazement, he pointed out the site of John Han¬ 
cock’s cow pasture; and Fred immediately wondered 
if hundreds of years from now people would be 
pointing out the Haywood cow pasture to some 
other boy when Fletcherville should have become a 


A Vacation Exchange 211 

great city. At the very thought of it Fred swelled 
with importance. He determined that when he got 
home he would write something very fine and smart, 
put it in a bottle, and bury it in a good place, so 
that when the future generations dug in the old 
pasture for the foundations of big buildings they 
would discover it—and read the name signed, “Fred 
Augustus Haywood.” 

So absorbed was Fred in all these delightful plans 
that he paid scant attention to the lecturer, who was 
talking about the ancient King’s Chapel, and the 
two old cemeteries close to the busy street. Not un¬ 
til Scollay Square was reached did he come out of 
his dreaming enough to realize what the man was 
saying, and then he became all interest at once, for 
the lecturer was calling attention to the many streets 
that came together at that point—like the spokes of 
a wheel—and saying that this was said to be what 
gave Boston its name of “The Hub.” 

Bump, bump over the cobblestone pavements 
went the auto, rumbling through the narrow streets 
until it came to the long bridge that crossed into 
Charlestown. The greenish-blue water, and the 
tantalizing glimpses of ships and boats set both 
Fred and Anabel to asking all sorts of questions; 
and the bridge, with all its wonders, was not half 
long enough to suit them. 

“It was here that Paul Revere mounted his horse 
for his famous midnight ride,” announced the lec¬ 
turer a little later, as the auto passed through a 
square. 

Fred twisted himself about and tried to see the 
whole square at once—if he looked everywhere, he 
must at some time be gazing at the exact spot, he 
reasoned; and he would not miss seeing it for a 


212 Hustler Joe 

good deal. Did he not know from beginning to end 
the poem: 

Listen, my children, and you shall hear 
Of the midnight ride of Paul Revere, 

and had he not spoken it at school not a month 
before? 

On and on lumbered the auto, but Fred did not 
heed. Famous dates and honored names rattled 
about his ears from the hollow disc of the mega¬ 
phone, but Fred did not hear. He was back with 
Paul Revere on that dark night long ago. 

“We will make a short stay at the monument,” he 
heard suddenly, as the auto stopped; and it was 
then that he came back to the present with a jerk, 
for before him towered the great granite obelisk that 
he had always so wanted to see—Bunker Hill Monu¬ 
ment. 

Down from the auto almost tumbled the twenty- 
six sightseers, flocking like sheep about the lecturer. 

“I’m going to climb to the top!” shouted Fred; 
but the lecturer shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, my boy, but we don’t stop long enough 
for that,” he said. “You’d have to climb over two 
hundred and ninety steps to reach the top.” 

Fred sighed, and nearly fell over backward in his 
attempt to send his eyes to that longed-for top 
where his feet might not go. 

And how they trooped about, those twenty-six 
sightseers, and how they looked, and listened and 
examined, under a hail of yet more familiar names 
and dates from the lips of the lecturer! 

And Fred? Fred almost clung to the man’s coat 
tails that he might not lose a single word; and all 


A Vacation Exchange 213 

the while he did not once remember that it was 
history—neither more nor less than history. 

But then—when one can see with one’s own eyes 
the cannon balls that were actually fired in a famous 
battle; and when one can look up at the towering, 
sculptured figure of the man who ordered his men 
not to fire until they saw the whites of the enemy’s 
eyes; and when one is shown the spot where General 
Warren fell; and the place where stood the old rail 
fence—when one can have all this, of course, it is 
not at all as if he were sitting in a stupid history 
class and droning off a date or two, over which one 
has yawned the night before. No, indeed! 

From Bunker Hill they went to the United States 
Navy Yard. The big car was not allowed inside the 
yard, so once more everyone filed down the flight of 
steps to the sidewalk, and followed the guide from 
point to point. 

To the Haywoods it was all absorbingly inter¬ 
esting, from the entrance gate—which the man said 
was never without its sentry—to the great drydocks 
for the big ships. Then came the crowning point 
of all—the visit to the old “Constitution”—“Old 
Ironsides,”—the victor in so many battles, and now 
years past the century mark. Yet how diminutive 
she looked, after all, for next her was a huge trans¬ 
atlantic liner, six hundred feet long. 

From the Navy Yard they went across the bridge 
to Boston, catching on the way a glimpse of the old 
church tower where were hung Paul Revere’s signal 
lanterns; and Fred had eyes for but little else while 
that was in sight. It was not long, however, before 
he heard the famous name again, for the man with 
the megaphone pointed out Faneuil Hall, and called 


Hustler Joe 


214 

attention to its grasshopper weather vane made by 
that same hero, Paul Revere. 

Up Washington Street—the “busiest, crookedest 
and longest street in New England,” the man called 
it—rumbled the auto, and both Fred and Anabel 
declared it was certainly “busy” enough and 
“crooked” enough to win the name; and as the man 
had said it stretched for seventy miles without 
change of name, they could not doubt its being the 
longest as well. 

On and on, past the curious old State House, and 
the Old South Meeting House—with its story of the 
famous Boston Tea Party—on and on went the auto 
until the Haywoods had seen and heard so much that 
they were not sorry when the big car stopped at the 
end of the trip. 


CHAPTER IV 


B EFORE leaving home Ralph and Lilian had laid 
in a generous supply of firecrackers and other 
fizzing things for the Fourth of July. There were 
also a few rockets which had been provided by Mr. 
Marston; these, however, were intended as a sur¬ 
prise, and neither Ralph nor Lilian knew anything 
about them. 

“How early may we go outdoors?” Ralph had 
asked just before going to bed the night of the third. 

Mrs. Marston looked at her husband and smiled 
a little. 

“Why, I think—as soon as you wake up,” she 
said slowly. 

Ralph opened wide his eyes. Then he gave a 
joyous shout. In Boston five o’clock was the earliest 
he ever had been allowed on the street. 

“Lilian,” he called excitedly as he hurried up¬ 
stairs, “mother says we may go out as soon as we 
wake up, and I’m going to get right up at the very 
first cracker!” 

“Oh, so am I!” exclaimed Lilian. “Won’t it be 
great fun! I never was out in the middle of the 
night, and I always wanted to be!” And she made 
ready for bed with all haste, that she might get all 
the sleep she could before that first cracker went 
off. 

When Ralph awoke the next morning the sun was 
shining straight in his face. He scowled and tried 
to cover his eyes with the sheet, then he suddenly 
215 


2l6 


Hustler Joe 


remembered what day it was. With a cry of dismay 
he bounded out of bed and ran to the window. 

Down in the yard were a hen and seven chickens, 
the only living things he could see. To his ears 
came a series of clucks and sharp little peeps, the 
only sounds he could hear. Up the road, down the 
road, not a house was in sight. For the first time 
Ralph realized that the Haywoods did not have a 
neighbor nearer than the Hopkins family, half a 
mile through the woods. With a disappointed frown 
on his face Ralph dressed himself and walked slowly 
downstairs. On the side porch he found Lilian. 

“Awfully jolly, isn’t it?” she said dolefully. 

“Isn’t it!” retorted Ralph. “Now I know why 
Joe Hopkins grinned so yesterday when I asked him 
what time they let the noise begin.” 

“What did he say?” 

“Nothing; only just giggled, and said I’d find out.” 

“Well, we’ve found out all right,” sighed Lilian. 
“It just doesn’t begin at all. There isn’t a soul in 
sight!” 

After breakfast Ralph and Lilian went onto the 
porch with their firecrackers and sat down on the 
steps. Three big crackers and four little ones had 
been listlessly disposed of when Ralph asked almost 
crossly: 

“Wasn’t Joe or Susie coming over to-day?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“Maybe they would have come if we’d asked 
them to.” 

“Maybe. I didn’t think. I expected there’d be 
plenty of other things going on without them, I sup¬ 
pose.” Lilian’s voice was not so cheery as usual, for 
some reason. 

There was a long pause. Lilian, on the lower step, 


A Vacation Exchange 217 

fidgeted from one side to the other, then sprang to 
her feet. 

“Let’s hunt hens’ eggs,” she cried with forced 
enthusiasm. 

Ralph shook his head impatiently. 

“Who wants to hunt hens’ eggs on the Fourth of 
July!” he exclaimed. 

At eleven o’clock Joe and Susie Hopkins walked 
into the yard. They were dressed in their best 
clothes, and announced with great glee that they 
had come to dinner. Five minutes later a carryall 
drove into the yard and four children jumped to 
the ground and were somewhat shyly introduced by 
Susie. 

“We’ve all come to dinner, you see,” she exclaimed. 
“And there are lots more. It’s a surprise!” 

There were, indeed, lots more, and thicker and 
faster they came until almost thirty boys and girls 
greeted Mrs. Marston’s startled eyes in the doorway. 

“They’ve come to dinner, all of them!” shouted 
Ralph gleefully. “It’s a surprise!” 

With a low cry Mrs. Marston turned and fled to 
her husband. 

“William, what in the world shall I do?” she cried. 
“That yard is full of children, and they’ve come to 
dinner. We’ve eaten up almost every single thing 
in the house. I was going to bake, to-morrow. 
William, what shall I do?” 

With a sharp ejaculation Mr. Marston sprang to 
his feet. 

“You don’t mean to say they’ve come now!” he 
exclaimed. “Why, I asked them for to-night!” 

“You asked them!” gasped Mrs. Marston, falhng 
limply into the chair behind her. “And you didn’t 
tell me! William, how could you!” 


218 


Hustler Joe 


“But ’twas to be a surprise!” 

“A surprise! ” Mrs. Marston’s tone spoke volumes. 
“Well—it is!” 

“But you don’t understand, dear. I knew just 
how quiet ’twould be for the children to-day, so 
yesterday I had Jim drive all around and invite all 
the boys and girls he could find to come to a surprise 
party to-day. Then I went down to the village and 
got the hotel people to promise to send out a lot 
of sandwiches and cake and ice cream, and all that 
sort of thing. Of course, I wasn’t going to have you 
work yourself to death, and I thought we could 
afford this one treat. But I asked them for to-night, 
not this noon. I don’t understand it. I told Jim 
to tell them to come a little while before dinner— 
you know I’ve got those few fireworks to set off as 
soon as it’s dark.” 

A sudden light of understanding came into Mrs. 
Marston’s eyes. 

“William, I know just what ’twas. You said 
‘dinner,’ and everybody here has dinner at noon, 
and, of course, they are coming now! But that 
doesn’t help me out,” she said dolefully. “William, 
what shall I do?” 

Mr. Marston shook his head. 

“I don’t know,” he began hesitatingly. “There’s 
a chance, of course, that the hotel people—I said 
‘dinner’ there, I suppose, just as I did to Jim; 
and-” 

A heavy knock interrupted. A moment later Mr. 
Marston faced a tall young man at the side door. 

“Be you the man that wanted a lot of stuff sent 
up from the hotel for-” 

“Yes, yes, oh, yes, bring it in quickly!” inter¬ 
rupted Mrs. Marston breathlessly. 


A Vacation Exchange 219 

“And she acted as if she hadn’t seen a thing to 
eat for a week!” said the young fellow afterwards, 
telling the story to his friends. “And she treated me 
as if I was her long-lost brother that she never ex¬ 
pected to see again!” 

And what a day it was—that Fourth of July! 
There were the merry games, the good things to eat 
—both at noon and at night—and last, but by no 
means least, the wonderful fireworks set off by Mr. 
Marston. 

At nine o’clock, after the last guest had been 
called for, Ralph and Lilian climbed the stairs to 
their rooms. It was then that Lilian grew suddenly 
sober. 

“Ralph,” she began tragically, as she stopped just 
outside her door, “to-morrow’s the fifth, and the next 
day’s the sixth, and the next is the seventh, and then 
’twill be half gone—our vacation. Only think—half 
gone!” 

Fred sighed. 

“I know,” he said. “If only we could stay here 
always—always! ” 

Lilian gave a quick cry. Ralph’s words seemed 
to have given her a sudden idea. She clutched her 
brother’s arm eagerly. 

“Ralph, why can’t we—really—stay always?” 

“Pooh!” snapped Ralph. “Don’t be silly, Lilian. 
It has to end in two weeks, of course. Besides, if it 
didn’t it would have to later, because there’s school.” 

“Oh, we could go to school here,” retorted Lilian. 

“Here!” ejaculated Ralph, plainly amazed. 

Lilian nodded triumphantly. 

“Ralph, listen!” she cried. “We’ve exchanged for 
two weeks, and we like it. Now why not keep on 
exchanging right along?” And she leaned back 


220 


Hustler Joe 

against the door casing with an air that said: “Find 
fault with that scheme if you can!” 

Evidently Ralph could, for he began to object at 
once. 

“But the Haywoods!” he protested. 

“They wanted to go to Boston just as much as we 
wanted to come here,” retorted Lilian. “I know 
they'd like it. Anyhow, I’m going to write to 
Anabel.” 

“But there’s father and mother, and there’s 
father’s work in the store!” exclaimed Ralph, still 
unconvinced. 

“They like it here, you know they do,” asserted 
Lilian. “And only last night mother said she just 
couldn’t bear to think of that hot city. As for father 
—he’s digging in the dirt half the time, and I just 
know he’d like it better than behind any old counter. 
He can buy the farm, and Miss Haywood can take 
our flat in Boston. Why, Ralph, don’t you see? It’s 
just as easy!” 

To tell the truth Ralph did not quite see, but he 
wanted to see very much, and it took only a little 
further argument on Lilian’s part to make him al¬ 
most as enthusiastic as herself. 

“Anyhow, I’m going to write to Anabel to-morrow 
first thing, before we go on the picnic,” declared 
Lilian as she pushed open her bedroom door. 

It had been a very tired boy and girl that had 
gone to bed in the Marston flat that third of July 
after a day of sightseeing, and tired eyes had closed 
almost as soon as tired heads had touched the pillow. 

Before coming to Boston, Fred and Anabel had 
laid great plans for the Fourth, but now that they 
were already there they had quite forgotten that the 


A Vacation Exchange 221 

great day was so near. When Anabel awoke, there¬ 
fore, long before daylight on that Fourth of July 
morning, and heard the drums, bells, horns and 
explosions big and little, she wondered what had 
happened. Even in her room, with its airshaft 
window, the din was no small matter, and she 
bounced out of bed with a frightened cry. 

Were those bells fire bells? But what could the 
rest be—those drums and horns and noises like pistol 
shots? Then suddenly she remembered. 

“It’s the Fourth. It’s the Fourth!” she screamed. 
“Fred, Aunt Ellen, the Fourth’s begun, and I forgot 
all about it. Get up, right away. I don’t want to 
lose a bit of it, not a single bit of it!” 

And she did not lose a single bit of it; at least 
she began that very minute to fill every moment 
with fun, frolic and noise. 

At half past eight, breakfast over, Fred, Anabel 
and Aunt Ellen boarded the trolley car at the end 
of the street. 

“We will go to the beach,” Aunt Ellen had said, 
and already Fred’s and Anabel’s eyes were big with 
the anticipation of seeing nothing but water as far 
as one’s gaze could reach—neither Fred nor Anabel 
had ever seen the ocean. 

But even the ocean was almost forgotten during 
the next hour, so absorbing was the journey to it; 
and both Fred and Anabel regretted more than ever 
that they could not look four ways at once. Every¬ 
where were boys, bands, flags and parades, and every¬ 
where were the jostling crowds of a great city out 
on a holiday. 

But when the beach, with its long stretches of 
white sand and its far-reaching blue water, was 
gained neither Fred nor Anabel had eyes for any- 


222 


Hustler Joe 


thing else. Nor were they content to sit up in one 
of the pavilions—they begged to go down on the 
beach itself and sit on the sand, where they might 
get a nearer view of the bathers. Gradually, how¬ 
ever, Anabel’s eyes looked less and less often at the 
bathers and more and more frequently at the 
tumbling waves. She had made a somewhat alarm¬ 
ing discovery—the wet sand line was whole inches 
nearer than it had been when they first sat down. 

What could it mean, Anabel asked herself. Had 
the ocean broken its bounds, and would the waves 
creep on and on until they had covered the beach, 
the street, the town, the whole world? Anabel’s 
imagination was very active just then. 

Close to Anabel’s hand lay a small stick, and this 
stick gave her a sudden idea. She would throw it 
just in front of her on the dry sand, and then watch. 
Perhaps, after all, she had only imagined that those 
waves were coming nearer. Some minutes later 
everyone near the Haywoods was startled by a sharp 
scream. Anabel was on her feet, her eyes wild and 
frightened. 

“Aunt Ellen, Aunt Ellen,” she was crying, “those 
waves are coming nearer! See, the last one came 
’way up here and carried off my stick!” 

Aunt Ellen had to laugh, though she tried to stop 
as she saw Anabel’s grieved face. Afterwards, when 
they had moved to a place farther back on the sand, 
she told the wonderful story of the tides; and Anabel 
ceased to fear that the waves would creep on and 
on until they had covered the earth. 

Soon after this the Haywoods left the beach itself, 
and began to explore the long line of attractions 
facing the street. At one o’clock they ate their 
luncheon on the beach, and after that they entered 


A Vacation Exchange 223 

the big amusement park and saw more wonders than 
they had ever dreamed of. Later Fred and Anabel 
mounted two of the merry-go-round horses, and 
thought it the most wonderful ride in the world until 
they tried the scenic railroad; then they knew it was 
not, for the way their car shot up and down the 
steep inclines, whizzed around corners and in and 
out of dark caverns almost took their breath away. 

As if this were not enough, there were the minia¬ 
ture floods, fires and volcanoes to be seen; and there 
was the amazing experience to enjoy of shooting 
down an incline in a boat and landing with a de¬ 
lightfully exciting splash in a big pool of water. 
Certainly it was a wonderful day; and at night came 
the crowning joy of all—the fireworks on the 
Common. 

On the day after the Fourth, Miss Haywood took 
Fred and Anabel shopping. It was not an entire 
success, for in the face of the multitude of fascinat¬ 
ing things to be seen and to be heard, it was no small 
task to keep both the children moving in the same 
direction at the same time, and also in the direction 
she wished to go herself. 

If Fred could have had his way he would have 
spent half his time riding up and down in the ele¬ 
vators ; while Anabel wished never to stay more than 
a minute in one place, being always in a hurry to 
see something just beyond. Under these circum¬ 
stances it is not strange, perhaps, that Miss Hay¬ 
wood did not find it very easy to do her shopping; 
and at night it was a question which was the more 
tired, she or the children. 

When the Haywoods woke up the next morning 
they found it raining. 

“Well, chickabiddies, this doesn’t look much like 


224 Hustler Joe 

sightseeing to-day, does it?” asked Aunt Ellen as she 
served the hash at breakfast; then her face grew 
suddenly grave. ‘Tm wondering, dears,” she went 
on hesitatingly, “if you supposed you could stay 
here alone for a little while? Two things that I 
bought yesterday are not right and must be changed; 
and I would rather not have you with me this time. 
I shall go as quickly as possible.” 

“Of course we can,” cried Fred, with some scorn. 
“Why, there isn’t anything that could happen to us 
right here in the house.” 

“You’re sure then that you’ll be all right—that 
you won’t be afraid,” interposed Aunt Ellen 
smilingly. 

“Afraid? Of course not!” cried both the children; 
and some minutes later Aunt Ellen started off, leav¬ 
ing behind her many admonitions regarding lights, 
stairs, windows and gas stove. 

For a time, merely to be alone in the flat was 
excitement enough for Fred and Anabel; then Anabel 
proposed that she go downstairs to the speaking 
tube and pretend she was a caller to be let in. It 
was a great success, and they promptly tried it again, 
only this time Fred went down to the vestibule. 
For almost an hour they played the game, announc¬ 
ing everything they could think of, from just a 
simple caller to the doctor and the policeman. By 
that time the flight of stairs had grown very long 
to both pairs of weary little legs. 

“Now I’ll hide and you find me,” suggested Fred, 
and Anabel agreed joyfully. 

They were deep in the delights of this when a 
peculiar ring of the doorbell interrupted. 

“The postman!” cried Anabel. “I choose to go!” 


A Vacation Exchange 22 £ 

And she threw open the hall door and rushed down¬ 
stairs. 

“Ho, you can’t get into the box!” yelled Fred 
after her as he reached up to the little hook by the 
door and took down the letter-box key. The next 
moment he was bounding down the stairs two steps 
at a time. 

When the box was opened there was just one letter 
inside—the one Lilian had written the day before. 

“It’s mine!” cried Anabel joyfully; “and from 
Lilian, too. Quick, let’s hurry upstairs and read it. 
I’ll get there first!” And she flung herself against 
the hall door, only to fall back in consternation— 
the door would not open! 

“Why, Fred, it’s locked!” she gasped. 

Fred’s face fell. He was very much frightened. 
He understood only too well the seriousness of the 
situation. 

“We—we ought not to have shut it,” he stam¬ 
mered. 

“But it wasn’t locked when we came through a 
minute ago,” protested Anabel. “It opened right 
away.” 

“But, Anabel, don’t you see? It’s one of those 
locks that will open on one side, but not on the 
other,” explained Fred a little impatiently. 

“Oh!” said Anabel, her wistful eyes on the row 
of eight speaking tubes which seemed to be making 
mouths at her from the wall. Suddenly her face 
brightened. “Why can’t we ring some other person’s 
bell, then,” she demanded, “and ask them to let 
us in?” 

“Of course we can,” cried Fred in relief. And he 
began to read aloud some of the names above the 
round, black holes. “James A. Smith, C. F. Bean, 


226 


Hustler Joe 


George H. Wilbur, Thomas Benton—well, anyhow, 
let’s begin with Smith.” 

It was easy, but not quite so easy as it seemed, 
for Fred had to ring three bells before he got any 
answer to his request to be let in. Anabel was 
already at the door, her hand on the knob, and 
almost at the first click she pushed the door open. 

“There!” exclaimed Fred, “now we’re all right.” 
But at the head of the stairs he stopped short in 
dismay—the suite door, too, was fast closed. 

“I—I must have shut it without thinking,” he 
stammered; “or maybe ’twas the wind. Anyhow, 
it’s shut—and we can’t get in.” 

Anabel frowned and sighed impatiently. 

“Well, I know what I think of doors and locks 
that have two sides to them,” she declared indig¬ 
nantly. “They’re just like Annie May cumber— 
wonderfully nice to your face, but meaner than dirt 
to your back!” 

Fred laughed, and in some way the laugh seemed 
to clear the air. 

“Never mind, Anabel, Aunt Ellen’ll come soon,” 
he comforted. “Let’s go down on the front steps 
and wait for her. It stopped raining long ago, you 
know.” 

“And there’s my letter, too; we’ll read that,” cried 
Anabel. And, once more smiling, she followed her 
brother down the stairs. 


CHAPTER V 


TT was the morning after the Fourth that Ralph 
* and Lilian, piloted by Joe and Susie, went for 
their promised picnic. Up Tompkins’ Hill, over the 
top and down the other side they trailed, coming to 
a delighted pause at the edge of a small lake. 

Joe carefully set his luncheon basket in a cool 
place, and placed Ralph’s beside it. 

a Seems to me,” began Ralph, but a scream from 
his sister interrupted him. 

“Quick, come here, all of you,” she cried. “Here 
are a lot of those funny little bead bugs, and they’re 
all crowding together in one spot, as if they were 
trying to get strung on one string!” she finished 
laughingly. 

“Bead bugs!” exclaimed Joe, running forward. 
“Why, what—pooh! they’re only ants,” he finished 
scornfully. 

Lilian did not seem to hear. She was entirely too 
absorbed in watching the ants. 

“Look!” she called excitedly. “They aren’t all 
black as the others were. They’re made of part red 
beads, and—oh!” she broke off in still greater ex¬ 
citement, “there are some black ones! There are 
two kinds, and they are fighting!” 

“Fighting!” cried the others—even Joe was in¬ 
terested now. 

“Sure enough, they are,” he said, his eyes on the 
struggling mass of agitated little bodies. “They’re 
all pulling at something. Steady, steady—here she 
227 


228 Hustler Joe 

comes! Say, it’s a black ant! They’re routing 
them out of the nest. That’s what it is!” 

“Joe,” called Susie from behind Ralph, in new 
excitement, “they’re coming from ’way over here 
somewhere. My, what a lot of them! They’re 
coming to help out, as sure as you’re alive!” 

It seemed so, indeed. From somewhere up the 
bank came a steady stream of the red-and-black ants, 
all hurrying very fast, and all headed straight toward 
the scene of battle. At the nest they swarmed in 
countless numbers. Every little while a big black 
ant would be seemingly hauled into sight only to be 
attacked by a dozen of the enemy and chased far 
away from the nest. 

“Look!” cried Joe, as a particularly large black 
ant appeared. “That’s the big king of them all, 
I’ll warrant. Just look at them go for him!” 

“Oh, dear, they’ve killed him—the poor thing!” 
shivered Lilian. “He’s quite dead! ” 

Evidently the red-and-black ants were of the same 
opinion, for they left the big, black fellow lying stiff 
and still, and turned back to the nest. But Lilian, 
whose eyes and sympathy had not strayed from the 
black ant, saw the motionless body suddenly come to 
life and scurry away to the shelter of a small stone. 

“He got away!” she crowed. “He wasn’t dead!” 

“Humph! playing possum,” grunted Joe; then his 
voice changed suddenly. “Quick, see!” he cried. 
“What are they lugging out of the nest now?” 

There was scarcely a black ant in sight by this 
time. But from the nest were swarming red-and- 
black ants carrying curious yellowish-white objects 
about the size of a barleycorn. They were not fight¬ 
ing now. They had other business on hand; and it 
was not long before the children saw another proces- 


A Vacation Exchange 229 

sion of ants—going away from the nest this time— 
and each with its yellowish-white burden fast held 
in its jaws. 

“I know. Those white things are going to turn 
into little ants,” cried Joe excitedly; “and these 
fellows are kidnapping them and are going to make 
slaves of them! Teacher told us all about it last 
summer.” 

“Oh, my!” chorused three awe-struck voices; and 
Lilian added: “I declare, I just feel sorry for those 
black ants; and if I could I’d take away every one 
of those little, white things and keep them myself; 
but I don’t know anything about bringing up baby 
ants!” 

It was not long after this that the luncheon baskets 
became more interesting than the ants were. Later, 
when all the children came back to the battle ground, 
they found it quiet and almost deserted except for 
the presence of a few red-and-black ants, left, Joe 
said, on guard. But when Lilian picked up a small 
stone to throw into the water, she gave a sudden 
cry, for under the stone were a dozen black ants 
that had fled to its shelter for safety. There was 
a general scurrying of little, black legs in all direc¬ 
tions. A minute later only the red-and-black ants 
were in sight. 

It did not rain in Fletcherville the next morning 
as it did in Boston, but it was very warm. 

“It’s to-day that Anabel gets my letter,” said 
Lilian, as she and Ralph sat under the big maple 
tree in the Haywood yard. “I wish I could see her 
when she reads it.” 

“So do I!” echoed Ralph. 

“Oh, she’ll like it all right,” went on Lilian con¬ 
fidently. “You know she was just crazy to go to 


230 Hustler Joe 

Boston, and of course shell be crazy to stay when 
she finds there’s such a good chance. But I should 
like to know what she says when she gets the letter. 
Sh—h!” she warned hurriedly, “mother’s coming, 
and she must not know—yet!” And Lilian rose to 
her feet with a particularly innocent air as her 
mother came out of the house with pails and 
luncheon baskets. The whole family was going 
raspberrying that day, and ten minutes later the 
house and the yard were deserted. 

Fred and Anabel found the great stone steps of 
the apartment house quite dry when they came down 
from the Marston flat on the morning they were 
locked out. 

“And now for Lilian’s letter,” cried Anabel. “I 
do hope she doesn’t want to come back before the 
two weeks are up. Only think, Fred—wouldn’t it 
be dreadful if she did?” 

Fred jerked his head emphatically, and Anabel 
tore open the letter. 

“Dear Anabel,” she read aloud. “How do you like 
it? We think it’s splendid, and we would like to ex¬ 
change right along. We thought perhaps if you liked 
it, too, that we would ask father to buy the farm and 
let you have our flat in Boston. We are going to tell 
our folks, and you can tell your aunt. We thought we 
would not do it, though, until the last minute, so as to 
surprise them. 

“Your loving friend, 

“Lilian Marston.” 

“Well, that doesn’t look much as if she wanted to 
come back!” crowed Fred, when the letter was 
finished. “I think there won’t be any objection down 
here to swapping right along; will there, Anabel?” 


A Vacation Exchange 231 

“I’m sure there won’t!” declared Anabel. “Only 
think, Fred—live here always! I don’t see how 
Ralph and Lilian can be willing to give it up!” 

“I know it,” murmured Fred. He hesitated, then 
asked, “But how about Aunt Ellen?” 

“Oh, she’ll be all right,” asserted Anabel. “Didn’t 
she say only yesterday that it was such a comfort 
to go shopping where they kept something, instead 
of in those little, tucked-up Fletcherville stores? 
You needn’t worry about her. She’ll just jump at 
the chance to stay!” 

“Then that’s all right,” settled Fred, brightening; 
“and we’ll do as Lilian said, not tell her till the last 
so as to surprise her.” 

At that moment from the avenue came the clang 
of bells. Then with a swirl of dust and smoke a fire 
engine dashed into view. 

“It’s a fire! It’s a fire!” shrieked Fred. “Come 
on, quick!” And with a bound he was off the steps 
and racing down the street, Anabel closely following. 

From all directions came hurrying men, women 
and children; and Fred and Anabel found themselves 
swept along with the crowd. To Fred and Anabel, 
however, this was no hardship so long as it brought 
them nearer to those fascinating monsters of fire 
and smoke. After a time, though, the policemen 
began to force the crowd back. The fire was becom¬ 
ing more serious, and a second alarm had been rung 
in. Fred and Anabel could not see nearly so well 
now, and they were beginning to be very warm and 
tired. 

“Pshaw! Let’s go home and see if Aunt Ellen 
hasn’t gotten back,” suggested Anabel. “It isn’t a 
mite of good staying here.” 

“All right,” agreed Fred. “Come on.” 


Hustler Joe 


232 

For some time they hurried along without speak¬ 
ing ; then Fred stopped at a comer. 

“Which way was it, Anabel? Is this where we 
turned?” he asked anxiously. 

Anabel shook her head. She was beginning to 
look frightened. 

“I don’t know,” she faltered. 

For another five minutes they trudged along in 
silence, then Anabel almost sobbed: 

“Fred, it wasn’t nearly so far. We must have 
passed it. I’m just sure we’re lost!” 

“Lost! Not a bit of it,” cried Fred. “’Course 
we’ll find it. We didn’t go far.” 

“Well, why don’t you ask somebody?” chattered 
Anabel. “Somebody that lives here? We don’t 
know where Aunt Kate lives.” 

Fred’s face cleared. 

“Why, of course; I forgot I could,” he cried. 
“Here comes a man. Say, mister,” he called, run¬ 
ning across the street, “whereabouts around here 
does my uncle William live, please?” 

The man stopped and turned his head. 

“Your uncle William!” he growled. “How do you 
suppose I know who your uncle William is?” 

“That was stupid of me; wasn’t it?” laughed Fred 
merrily. “And he isn’t even my uncle, either—only 
make-believe. He’s Mr. Mars ton, sir. Mr. William 
Marston.” 

“Don’t know him,” snapped the man as he turned 
away. 

Four more men were questioned, but with no 
better results. Then Anabel lost her patience. 

“Why, there doesn’t anyone seem to know Uncle 
William,” she complained. “I should think some 
one would!” 


A Vacation Exchange 233 

“Maybe some one knows Ralph or Lilian, if they 
don’t know Uncle William,” suggested Anabel sud¬ 
denly as she saw a little girl coming toward them. 
The girl was barefooted and poorly dressed, but to 
the farm-bred Anabel this was not anything unusual. 

“If you please, little girl, do you know Lilian 
Marston?” asked Anabel timidly, as the stranger 
came within speaking distance. 

The girl addressed stopped and stared; then shook 
her head. Another girl, still more ragged and for¬ 
lorn, came up unnoticed and stopped to listen. 

“Say, you can talk all day if you want to, but 
’twon’t do you much good,” she volunteered. 
“Teresa’s an Italian. She doesn’t know English. 
What’s up?” 

Anabel turned quickly. 

“Oh, maybe you know Lilian Marston, or Ralph?” 
she cried. 

“Not a bit,” rejoined the other cheerily. “What 
you want? Got lost?” 

“Yes, and we’re so hungry!” almost sobbed Anabel. 
“And Aunt Ellen’ll be sure to be there, and she’ll 
worry. It’s dinner time, too; isn’t it?” 

A strange look came into the thin, little face 
opposite. 

“Shouldn’t wonder if ’twas, for them that has 
dinner!” said the girl, with a short laugh. Then her 
manner changed. “Look a-here, can’t you remember 
the street, or anything, where you live?” 

“No,” said Fred gloomily. “Not a thing.” 

“Nor any piece of paper or anything with it on?” 

Anabel clapped her hand to her belt with a sudden 
cry. 

“My letter!” she exclaimed joyfully. Then her 


234 Hustler Joe 

face fell. “It’s lost. I must have dropped it. Oh, 
dear, I’m so sorry!” 

“Of course you might come with me,” began the 
girl slowly, “if-” 

“Oh, thank you,” interrupted Anabel, “we’d 
love to.” 

“You see, if you’ll just give us our dinner we’ll 
feel more like going on hunting,” put in Fred. “And 
to-morrow we’ll ask you to our house. I’ll tell Aunt 
Ellen you’re coming.” 

The girl laughed oddly, and shrugged her 
shoulders. 

“Humph!” she said. “Well, we’ll go home and see 
Mother Moll, anyhow. Maybe she’ll know what to 
do for you.” 

Fred and Anabel needed no second invitation. 
Nothing had been said on the little girl’s part about 
dinner, to be sure, but Fred and Anabel did not 
doubt that at the end of the way a loving mother 
would bid them welcome to a well-filled dinner table 
—just as would have been the case in their own home 
had this little girl been lost in Fletcherville. 

Noisier and dirtier grew the streets, yet the girl 
still sped on. 

“Here we are,” she announced at last, turning into 
an alleyway, and bounding down a short flight of 
steps. 

Fred and Anabel drew back. 

“What, there?” they gasped. 

The girl ahead did not notice. She had pushed 
open the door and was calling to some one out of 
sight. 

“Mother Moll, Mother Moll, I’ve brought two 
children that are lost, and they’re hungry. Did you 
get anything to eat?” 


A Vacation Exchange 235 

“Course I did,” replied a cheery voice. “Bring ’em 
in!” And a tall, freckled girl about fourteen years 
old came out of the basement room, and beckoned 
the children to enter. “I reckon we have something 
to eat,” she reiterated, bustling ahead. “I found a 
nickel down on Dover Street, and got another one 
doing errands. We’ve got bread and frankfurters, 
and there’s two bananas—the fruit man threw them 
away, but there’s some good in them. Here, you 
sit here,” she went on hospitably placing a broken 
chair for Anabel; “and here’s one for the boy. Kit 
and I can take the boxes.” 

Scarcely conscious of what they were doing, Fred 
and Anabel seated themselves and looked about 
them. Only a little light came through the narrow 
window, but there was enough to show the bed¬ 
stead in one corner, a mattress on the floor in an¬ 
other, a table, a stove and a few broken dishes on a 
shelf. 

“And do you live here—all the time?” faltered 
Anabel, as Mother Moll thrust into her hand a plate 
containing a piece of very dry bread and a greasy 
frankfurter. 

“Well, we shall if we can,” returned Mother Moll 
cheerfully. “But you see it costs quite a lot, and 
we don’t get much money. There are four of us— 
the two boys, Kit and me. I’m the biggest, so they 
call me Mother Moll.’ The boys sell papers and 
black shoes and run errands for the doctor, and I 
get what money I can, too. You see, it’s such a 
nice, big, roomy place here that we hope we can 
keep it, with the doctor to help us.” 

“Oh!” faltered Anabel, who was trying to be very 
polite and eat what was set before her. Hungry as 
she thought she was, however, she could only nibble 


236 Hustler Joe 

at the dry bread. She looked at her new friends in 
amazement to see the way the food disappeared 
down their throats, 

“My, doesn't it taste good!" cried Kitty, as if in 
answer to Anabel’s thoughts. “You see, we had a 
hard day yesterday, and we didn’t have anything for 
supper nor for breakfast this morning. But who 
cares now when we’ve got all this!’’ 

Anabel dropped the bread hi her hand. 

“You don’t mean that you didn’t have any supper 
or breakfast?’’ she gasped. 

“And you asked us here, and let us eat up your 
dinner when it’s all you’ve got?’’ cried Fred. 
“Anabel, we mustn’t eat another bite—not a bite," 
he finished in consternation. 

“Of course not!" exclaimed Anabel, hastily put¬ 
ting aside her plate. “And to-morrow you must all 
come and take dinner with us—that is, if we ever 
get home," she choked in sudden remembrance. 

“Sure enough, Kit did say you were lost, didn’t 
she?" cried Mother Moll. “Well, let’s hear all about 
it, and we’ll see what can be done." 

Once in possession of the facts, Mother Moll was 
quick to act. She was a very wise little person for 
a girl of fourteen, and she was used to emergencies, 
having been the head of the little family ever since 
her mother’s death, three years before. 

“We’ll go straight to the drug store on the corner, 
and look up Mr. William Marston in the directory," 
she said promptly; “and then Kit shall take you 
home. You can’t lose Kit in Boston!" 

It was almost four o’clock when three tired chil¬ 
dren turned into the cross street and hurried toward 
the big apartment house in which was the Marston 


A Vacation Exchange 237 

flat. On the steps stood an anxious woman who ran 
forward with a glad cry. 

“Darlings! Where have you been? I’ve searched 
the whole neighborhood, and I’ve just telephoned 
the police station.” 

“We got locked out and went to a fire and got 
lost,” explained Fred breathlessly. 

“And this is Kitty, and she found us,” announced 
Anabel; “and she and Mother Moll gave us our 
dinner when they hadn’t had anything to eat since 
yesterday noon. And, auntie, wasn’t it perfectly 
lovely of them?” 

“It certainly was,” said Aunt Ellen, her voice 
shaking a little as she looked at Kitty’s small, 
pinched face. “Come in, my dear, with Fred and 
Anabel. I want to talk to you.” And she led the 
way up the steps. 


CHAPTER VI 


S UNDAY was a very quiet day, both in the 
Marston flat and in the Haywood farmhouse. 
In Boston, Fred and Anabel went to church in the 
morning, and spent the afternoon very contentedly 
with their books. Kitty and Mother Moll did not 
come to dinner. Aunt Ellen had suggested that they 
wait a day or two for that; but she wrote down their 
address and said that she herself would go to see 
them Monday, and that later, if it could be arranged, 
they all should come out for the day. And Fred and 
Anabel agreed that this was the better plan. 

In the farmhouse at Fletcherville the day was 
equally quiet. The whole family went to the 
Fletcherville church for the morning service. But 
bright and early Monday Joe and Susie appeared 
with their luncheon baskets, ready for a picnic. 

“And where are you going this time?” Mrs. 
Marston smilingly asked. “I should think there’d 
be scarcely any places left.” 

“Oh, there are lots of them,” protested Susie. 
“And we shall not finish them all by Saturday, either. 
There’ll be heaps they won’t see.” 

Lilian glanced at Ralph; and Joe, who was watch¬ 
ing, saw that they tossed their heads and looked 
suddenly very conscious, but he could not hear 
Lilian’s whisper, “What if they knew we were going 
to stay here always!” 

In the pine grove on the top of Peak’s Hill the 
238 


A Vacation Exchange 239 

picnickers spread their luncheon where they could 
get a fine view of the river and the village. 

“I know what we’ll do/’ cried Joe, as he reached 
for a ham sandwich. “We’ll go down to Peak’s Pond 
after luncheon. It’s a fine place, and we’ll get Aunt 
Peggy to sing to us and tell us stories.” 

As usual, there was no opposition to Joe’s plan, 
and the four were soon trailing down the hill with 
Joe in the lead. They had almost reached a little 
clearing when Lilian, who had chanced to turn her 
head, clutched Joe’s arm. 

“Joe, who’s that? Quick, look!” she whispered. 

Coming toward them was a curious, bent old 
woman. She carried a stick and was poking about 
among the tangled vines and bushes; and all the 
while she was mumbling something under her 
breath. 

“Why, it’s old Peggy herself,” cried Joe, “hunting 
for her herbs; but she’ll stop for us. Come on.” 

Lilian hung back. 

“But I’m afraid,” she shivered. 

“Pooh!” laughed Joe. “Aunt Peggy wouldn’t 
hurt a fly.” Then he called: “Hello, Aunt Peggy! 
I’ve brought some friends of mine to see you. Won’t 
you show us your cabin?” 

“Mebbe so, mebbe,” grunted the old woman, “if 
you’ll be good.” Her voice was stern, but her old 
eyes were twinkling, and after she had shown the 
cabin and its odd treasures she easily yielded to Joe’s 
coaxing and seated herself to chant one of her curious 
old folklore songs which were the delight of the 
children, young and old, for miles around. 

“ The Twelfth Day of Christmas,’ please,” begged 
Susie. 

“All right,” agreed the old woman; “and I’ll sing 


Hustler Joe 


240 

it as my mother sung it to me years ago, and as her 
mother sung it to her before that.” And then she 
began, in a tremulous little singsong chant: 

“ 'On the first day of Christmas my true love sent 
to me a partridge and a pear tree. 

“ 'On the second day of Christmas my true love sent 
to me two turtledoves, and a partridge 
and a pear tree.’ ” 

On and on quavered the old voice, verse after 
verse, adding gift after gift. Faster and faster 
tumbled the words about the children’s ears until 
the song ended in one long, delightful burst of fas¬ 
cinating jargon—the twelfth verse: 

" 'On the twelfth day of Christmas my true love sent 
to me twelve lions roaring, eleven hounds a-howl- 
ing, ten bears a-baiting, nine lords a-leaping, eight 
ladies dancing, seven swans a-swimming, six geese 
a-laying, five gold rings, four French hens, three 
curlew birds, two turtledoves, and a partridge and 
a pear tree.’ ” 

“Oh-h!” breathed the four children ecstatically, 
when the last word died into silence. “Now, another, 
please!” 

Another and another did old Peggy sing; then 
Joe said they must start home. And all the way it 
seemed to Lilian as if she were keeping step to the 
swinging little rhythm of “three curlew birds, two 
turtledoves and a partridge and a pear tree.” 

Soon after breakfast on Monday morning Miss 
Haywood sought the janitor in the basement. 

“I want to take a basket of things to some children 
over at the South End, and I shall need some one to 
help me. Can I get you to do it?” she asked. 


A Vacation Exchange 241 

“Sure!” said the man heartily. 

Miss Haywood did not think it best to take Fred 
and Anabel with her, neither did she approve of 
allowing Mother Moll and Kitty to accept Anabel’s 
invitation to dinner until something more was known 
about them; so she and the janitor went together. 
When she returned at noon, to Fred and Anabel, she 
found two eager questioners who wanted to know 
every detail of her visit. 

“Yes, I saw them,” she said, “and they’ll come 
to-morrow to spend the day—the boys and all. You 
must be very good to them, chickabiddies, and give 
them just the nicest sort of good time. They are 
very poor and they hardly know the meaning of 
fun,” she finished with a little catch in her voice 
as she thought of Mother Moll’s poor little home. 

Fred and Anabel did not think of much during 
the rest of the day but the coming visit from Mother 
Moll and her family. Even the long walk and the 
long ride which they took with their aunt in the 
afternoon failed to drive from their minds the plans 
for the next day. 

Tuesday dawned fair and clear; and promptly at 
ten o’clock Mother Moll, Kitty, Winks and Blinks— 
the boys were never known by any other names— 
appeared at the Marston flat. Each one was proudly 
happy in a new suit. Miss Haywood had taken all 
four to the nearest department store the day before, 
and had fitted them out with new clothing from head 
to foot; and each one was wildly curious to know 
what this strange invitation to spend the day might 
bring forth. 

At half past ten Miss Haywood and six bright¬ 
eyed boys and girls boarded the trolley car, and 


Hustler Joe 


242 

started on the long hour’s ride that was to take them 
to a large pleasure park some distance from the city. 

“This is great!” cried Winks, when the park with 
its trees, flowers and stirring music was reached. 

“Tiptop!” burst out Blinks. 

“You see we don’t have much trees and grass 
where we live,” explained Mother Moll, half apolo¬ 
getically ; “and, of course, we act kind of crazy when 
we do get where they are. You know there isn’t any¬ 
thing that quite comes up to trees and grass! You 
don’t have them where you live, either; do you?” 
she went on sympathetically. 

“Why, yes we do, too,” cried Anabel. “It’s all 
trees and grass!” 

Mother Moll looked puzzled. 

“Why, I didn’t see any,” she ventured timidly, 
“only that little spot in the front and I don’t call 
that trees and grass.” 

“Pooh! That!” retorted Anabel. “I shouldn’t 
think you would; but we don’t live there. We live 
in the country.” 

“Not the real country,” cried Winks, “with fishing 
and swimming!” 

“And barns and chickens?” cut in Blinks and 
Kitty. 

“Well, I just think it’s the real country,” cried 
Fred triumphantly. 

“You see they’ve been ‘Fresh-airers,’ ” explained 
Mother Moll, “Kit and the boys—so they know. I 
couldn’t go, because there was only room for three 
when they got around to us; but the doctor is going 
to fix it so I can go sometime.” 

“Oh, but you just ought to see our place!” ex¬ 
claimed Fred. 

“Perhaps they will, dears,” interposed Aunt Ellen 


A Vacation Exchange 243 

smilingly. “Suppose we ask them to come up next 
summer for a visit. Would you like to?” she added, 
turning to Mother Moll and her family. 

A jubilant chorus of “Tiptop!” “Great!” “I’m 
sure we would like it!” replied to her question; and 
for the next ten minutes even the park itself was 
forgotten in the delightful plans the six young people 
laid for that next summer’s visit. 

“We’ll give you the nicest time you ever had!” 
finished Anabel, at last; then a queer look came 
into her face, and she glanced at Fred. Fred was 
not noticing. 

“Fred,” she whispered a minute later, pulling her 
brother aside, “we forgot—we aren’t going to be 
home next summer!” 

“What?” cried Fred; then his face fell. “Why, so 
—we—aren’t! ” 

“Of course, we don’t want to be, either,” went on 
Anabel, tossing her head, but not meeting Fred’s 
eyes; “only I’m sorry we said anything about their 
coming up. But then, probably they’ll forget all 
about it. Anyhow, we can’t say anything yet, even 
to Aunt Ellen, ’cause Lilian said to save it till the 
last.” 

Mother Moll, Kitty and the two boys showed no 
signs of forgetting it, however, and they did not 
seem to notice that after a while they had to do 
most of the talking themselves. But in time the 
merry-go-rounds and the wonderful animals in the 
zoo silenced even their tongues on the matter, and 
their attention was given to the enjoyment of the 
more immediate present. 

At noon came luncheon. After that came the 
long ride back to Boston, and a supper all together 
in a pretty down-town cafe before taking Mother 


Hustler Joe 


244 

Moll, Kitty and the boys to their home. And not 
until Anabel was dropping off to sleep that night 
did she suddenly remember again that she had in¬ 
vited two boys and two girls to Fletcherville next 
summer, when she herself expected to be miles away. 

Tuesday had been a beautiful day in Fletcherville, 
and Ralph, Lilian, Joe and Susie had made the most 
of it. They had been particularly anxious to crowd 
the day as full as possible, for Joe announced in the 
morning that they were very unexpectedly going 
away the next day with their mother for a week at 
Grandmother Wheeler’s over beyond Fletcherville. 

When the Marstons awoke Wednesday morning 
they heard the rat-a-tat-tat of the rain on the roof. 

“Oh, dear,” groaned Ralph, “what did it have to 
rain to-day for?” 

“But there’s the attic,” reminded Lilian; “you 
know we said when we came that we wished it would 
rain so we’d have to play there.” 

Ralph brightened; and immediately after break¬ 
fast he and Lilian scampered upstairs. For some 
time they ransacked boxes and barrels, and played 
charades; then they dropped listlessly dowm on an 
old settee and looked about them. 

“Dear me,” sighed Lilian after a long pause, “how 
I do wish I could see Nannie Gibson!” Nannie Gib¬ 
son was her dearest friend in Boston. 

“Don’t see how you can—if you stay here,” re¬ 
torted Ralph; “so you might as well begin to get 
used to it.” 

Lilian frowned and moved restlessly in her seat. 
By and by she climbed on a trunk and looked out of 
the window. 

“It’s awfully wet,” she announced after a time. 


A Vacation Exchange 24 j 

Ralph did not answer. 

“ ’Tis kind of funny, isn’t it?” sighed Lilian, after 
a time. “Oh, it’s nice, and all that, of course; but 
’tis funny.” 

“What’s funny?” asked Ralph. 

“The country. It’s so quiet, you know. Now, 
listen! There isn’t one single thing you can hear 
but the rain. At home, you know, there are people, 
and carriages, and cars, and the folks in the next 
flat and sometimes fire engines and bands.” 

Ralph looked up suspiciously. 

“See here, Lilian Marston, are you backing out?” 
he demanded. “Are you backing out of wanting 
to stay exchanged right along?” 

Lilian flushed a quick red. 

“Of course, I’m not backing out, Ralph Marston,” 
she retorted. “It doesn’t do any harm just to com¬ 
pare things. Besides, how’d we know which we’d 
like the better if we didn’t do it? Tell me that!” 

“Humph!” grunted Fred; and Lilian said no more. 

Later they got out their books and read. Still 
later they played flinch; and after hours and hours 
—each of which seemed almost a day in length—it 
was bedtime. And the last thing Lilian heard as she 
dropped off to sleep was the rat-a-tat-tat on the 
roof. 


CHAPTER VII 


A LL day Wednesday the Marston flat in Boston 
had been in semi-twilight. All day it had 
rained. When Thursday came, therefore, and 
brought no change in the lowering sky, Fred and 
Anabel were in despair. 

“But, auntie, what can we do?” asked Anabel. 
“We read yesterday until our eyes ached, and we 
played checkers and dominoes until we hated the 
sight of them; and it seems as if we couldn’t start 
in all over again!” 

“But, children,” remonstrated Aunt Ellen, “I 
never knew you to be so restless at home on a rainy 
day! ” 

“Oh, at home we are used to things, I suppose,” 
said Fred, with a quick glance at his sister; “and 
we’d do things we’re used to. Not but that it’s 
nicer here,” he added hurriedly, “only it’s— 
different.” 

“Yes, indeed, of course it’s a great deal nicer 
here,” chimed in Anabel. “Here, Fred, quick. See 
if you can catch me before I get to the end of the 
hall!” And she turned and darted down the narrow 
passageway, dodging through an open door at the 
side just in time to slip out of Fred’s reach. 

It proved to be great sport—this game of indoor 
tag; and Fred and Anabel were soon laughing and 
screaming at the top of their voices. Five, ten, 
fifteen minutes went by, and the charm of tag did 
not abate. Out in the kitchen Aunt Ellen was think¬ 
ing how glad she was that the children had found 
246 


A Vacation Exchange 247 

something new to amuse them, when there came a 
sharp knock at the front hall door. 

“If you please, ma’am/’ began an angry voice, as 
Miss Haywood opened the door, “my mistress says 
as how she’s sorry to complain, but she just can’t 
stand another minute of this racket. What with the 
hollering and the shouting and the dancing of the 
chandelier, she’s ’most wild, and she’s been expect¬ 
ing every minute that the plastering would come 
tumbling down on her head!” 

“Oh, I am so—so sorry,” stammered Miss Hay¬ 
wood in quick distress. “We are not used to living 
in a flat, and I never thought of the neighbors down¬ 
stairs. Tell your mistress it shall be stopped at 
once.” 

“Er—thank you,” muttered the woman slightly 
mollified, as she turned to go downstairs. 

Back in the hall Miss Haywood faced an indignant 
boy and girl. 

“Just as if a little game like that could hurt any¬ 
body!” stormed Anabel wrathfully. “Why, I never 
did see such fussy folks!” 

“And there was that night in the air shaft,” said 
Fred; “they wouldn’t let us talk in there!” 

“I know it,” cried Anabel; “or walk on just com¬ 
mon grass, or pick flowers that were growing right 
outdoors, either. I just hate their old fussy ways 
down here; so there!” 

“Anabel, Anabel,” remonstrated Miss Haywood 
gently. “You are angry now, dear, and you don’t 
know what you are saying. You were noisy and it 
did jar their ceiling, I’ve no doubt. It was my fault. 
I ought to have thought, but you see we are not 
used to living in quite such close quarters with other 
people.” 


Hustler Joe 


248 

“I’m sure I’m glad we aren’t/’ burst out Anabel. 
“Who wants to live all huddled with folks like this, 
anyhow? I’m sure I don’t!” The next instant she 
had clapped her hand to her lips with a swift look 
at Fred as he ran back into the kitchen. She sud¬ 
denly had remembered that this was exactly the way 
they were to live now that they had decided to accept 
Lilian’s proposition to keep on with the exchange. 

Thursday at the farmhouse in Fletcherville had 
been but repetition of the day before, so far as 
weather and weariness were concerned; but on 
Friday the sun rose clear, and was hailed with joy 
by all the family. 

“It’s queer,” observed Ralph, “how much longer 
two rainy days are than a whole week of pleasant 
ones.” 

“I’ve noticed that myself,” returned his father, 
with a smile. “And I’m glad this last day here is 
to be a fine one. You know that to-morrow we go 
home.” 

“Oh, dear, isn’t it dreadful!” mourned Lilian, try¬ 
ing to look very downhearted. Under cover of the 
overhanging tablecloth she nudged her brother, 
which he understood to mean that he, too, was ex¬ 
pected to join in the pretended lamentations. 

“Yes, isn’t it!” he echoed. 

“Come, come, dears, this will never do in the 
world,” protested Mrs. Marston. “I know it’s nice 
here, and I don’t blame you for not wanting to 
leave. We don’t want to go ourselves! But you 
are forgetting the good times you have in Boston; 
and, besides, there are all your young mates—only 
think what a lot you will have to tell them!” 

“And there’s another thing, children,” said Mr. 


A Vacation Exchange 249 

Marston. “I didn’t tell you, for I wanted it to be 
a surprise; but there’s to be a fine electrical parade 
in Boston next Monday, and I’d planned that we’d 
all go to see it.” 

“And I,” added Mrs. Marston, turning to Lilian, 
“have invited Nannie Gibson to come in from New¬ 
ton and go with us, then she can spend the night 
with you. You see, I arranged this little surprise to 
make it easier for you to leave all the good times 
here.” 

“Oh-h,” replied Lilian, in a queer, little, shaky 
voice. “T-thank you.” Ralph did not speak. 

“Why, the poor little things looked even more 
miserable than before,” said Mrs. Marston to her 
husband, as soon as Ralph and Lilian had left the 
room. “It’s too bad they hate to go so.” 

Out in the yard Ralph and Lilian walked slowly 
to the old settee under the maple tree. 

“They—they’ll be surprised when we tell them 
we’ve fixed it to exchange right along; won’t they?” 
began Lilian, talking very fast so as to hide the 
shake in her voice. “And they’ll be pleased, too.” 

“Yes,” said Ralph. He hesitated a minute, then 
asked, “When are you going to—tell them?” 

“Why, I thought not until to-night,” returned 
Lilian anxiously. “I thought I’d save the surprise 
until the last minute—same as I do the frosting on 
cake, you know. And, Ralph, won’t it be fun?” 

“Yes,” said Ralph, “won’t it?” A listener might 
have thought the enthusiasm a little forced. Even 
Lilian threw a quick look at his face. 

Ralph and Lilian tried to be very jolly that morn¬ 
ing, but there did not seem to be anything that they 
really wanted to do. They spent most of the time, 
indeed, under the maple tree talking of Boston and 


Hustler Joe 


250 

of the parade which they were not going to see. 
After a time they went down to the field where Jim 
was at work, but even there it wasn’t very interest¬ 
ing. From field to pasture, and from pasture to 
woodland they trudged, listlessly, aimlessly, not 
seeming to care where they went, until almost noon. 
Then they turned their steps toward the farmhouse 
for dinner. 

The afternoon passed much as had the forenoon. 
By four o’clock they had drifted to the old stone 
wall by the road. 

“It was here we first saw Sue and Joe; wasn’t it?” 
said Lilian wistfully. 

“Yes, and I’d like to see them now,” retorted 
Ralph. 

“So would I,” sighed Lilian, looking to the right 
and to the left where the road stretched in both 
directions, white, hot and dusty. There was not a 
living thing in sight. “Dear me, I should like to 
see somebody or something besides just trees and 
grass and road!” she cried. 

Ralph clicked his heels together against the wall. 
He sent a sidelong glance at his sister, but he said 
nothing. 

Supper was a very quiet meal that night, though 
Mr. and Mrs. Marston did their best to make it as 
cheerful as possible. When it was over Lilian ran 
upstairs for a handkerchief, but almost immediately 
she came clattering down again. 

“Ralph,” she called excitedly, “where are you? 
Here, come quick, come out into the apple tree. I 
want to speak to you!” 

“Why, Lilian Marston, what in the world is it?” 
demanded Ralph, as he climbed to his sister’s side. 
“I haven’t seen you look so pleased for a week!” 


A Vacation Exchange 251 

Lilian sobered instantly. 

“You are very much mistaken, Ralph,” she said, 
with some dignity. “I am not pleased at all.” And 
Lilian really thought she was telling the truth. “I 
am excited; that is all. Of course I am very much 
disappointed—very much,” she repeated with 
emphasis. 

“What about?” 

“The exchange. We can’t tell them. We can’t 
tell them at all, Ralph,” she said impressively. 

“Why, Lilian Marston, what do you mean? Why 
not?” demanded Ralph. 

“Because the trunks are all packed. I saw them 
upstairs a minute ago, and I never thought of the 
trunks before, Ralph. We ought to have told them 
sooner, of course, but we can’t make them have all 
that work now for nothing, so we’ll haVe to go 
to-morrow, after all!” And Lilian settled back 
against the tree very complacently indeed for one 
who was so sadly disappointed. 

“But, how—how can we when it’s all fixed?” stam¬ 
mered Ralph, who was slightly dazed in the face 
of so tremendous and sudden a change in his whole 
future life. 

“But it wasn’t fixed. We hadn’t told them yet.” 

“But there’s Fred and Anabel—you told them.” 

Lilian frowned. 

“Yes, I know,” she paused thoughtfully. “Well, 
anyhow,” she went on with renewed assurance, “they 
haven’t said anything to us yet, so maybe they 
haven’t told their aunt, either. We’ll see how things 
come out at the junction.” 

“But what if they don’t meet us? What if they 
don’t start to come home at all?” 


252 Hustler Joe 

For a moment Lilian looked puzzled; then she 
tossed her head. 

“Why, if they aren’t there we’ll keep right on to 
Boston, of course, and fix it up down there. Dear 
me, if I didn’t forget my handkerchief, after all!” 
she broke off suddenly. “I’ll have to go in after it.” 
And she began to pick her way down the tree. 

Ralph sat looking after her. Little by little his 
thoughts were coming into something like order. 
Little by little he was beginning to understand. 

“I don’t believe she wanted to stay herself!” he 
cried suddenly, with a thump of his clinched fist on 
his knee. “And—and I don’t believe I do, either.” 

It had cleared off very warm after the rain that 
Thursday afternoon in Boston; and when Anabel 
went into her tiny little room to go to bed the place 
was as warm as an oven. 

All night she tossed about on the hot little bed 
with only fitful snatches of sleep; and when morn¬ 
ing came she was even more tired than when she 
went to bed. 

“Why, I never did see such a feeling morning! 
What does ail it?” she cried. 

“I’m afraid Kitty and the rest have seen a good 
many such mornings, Anabel,” said Aunt Ellen. 
“Just think what it will be to them to have that 
nice long visit with us next summer! It is a bad 
feeling morning, but you’ll be all right, dear, just 
as soon as we get back to the fresh, country air.” 

Anabel said nothing, but Fred, who was watch¬ 
ing, saw that she put her muffin down untasted, and 
that before long she asked to be excused from the 
table. 

“Well, chickabiddies, what shall we do with our- 
a 


A Vacation Exchange 253 

selves to-day—this last day?” asked Aunt Ellen a 
little later. 

Fred coughed, and Anabel pulled his sleeve. 

“Sh-h!” she whispered. “We don’t want to tell 
her yet. You know Lilian said not to do it until 
the last minute. And of course Aunt Ellen doesn’t 
know it isn’t our last day!” 

“How would it do to take a run down the harbor 
to one of the beaches?” went on Aunt Ellen. “That 
ought to be cool.” 

“Just lovely!” exclaimed Anabel. “Besides, we 
really ought to go somewhere. If we stayed here, 
you know, we might breathe too loud and disturb 
the people downstairs!” she finished scornfully. 

“Anabel, my dear!” remonstrated Aunt Ellen; but 
Fred was sure he caught the gleam of a far-away 
twinkle in his aunt’s eye. 

At nine o’clock when the Haywoods left the 
Marston flat, the sun beat down upon the pavements 
and heated them so hot that they seemed to scorch 
and shrivel one’s feet at every step. Even the breeze 
on the trolley car was like a blast from a furnace. 
It promised to be cooler on the boat, however, and 
they all sighed with relief when that was reached. 

And what a day it was to everyone but Anabel! 
Anabel alone did not seem quite happy. To tell 
the truth, nothing seemed to please Anabel that 
day. The sun on the water hurt her eyes, and she 
declared that there was not “a mite of breeze on the 
whole boat.” At the beach the waves were “such 
little bits of things!” for the tide was going out; and 
she said it was too warm to walk about. Yet, if 
questioned, Anabel insisted that she was having 
“a perfectly lovely time,” and she seemed to get 
very angry if anyone doubted it. 


Hustler Joe 


254 

They took an early boat home, Aunt Ellen saying 
that she had packing to do; and at the words Fred 
nudged Anabel. 

“Tell her, tell her! Why don’t you tell her?” he 
whispered. 

Anabel frowned and shook her head. 

All the way to the Marston flat Anabel scarcely 
spoke, and Aunt Ellen, thinking that her niece was 
grieving over the good times so soon to end, tried to 
arouse her interest in the things at home—Flossie 
and the kittens, the rosebush, Joe, Susie and all the 
others who would be so interested to hear about the 
wonderful visit. But the longer she talked the more 
dismal grew Anabel’s face; so that in time Aunt 
Ellen gave it up in despair. 

“Anabel, what in the world ails you?” demanded 
Fred, an hour later, coming upon his sister crying 
in the parlor window seat. 

“That’s exactly what I want to know myself,” 
sobbed Anabel. “What does ail me?” 

“Don’t you know?” he asked, as he dropped down 
to his sister’s side. The two had the parlor to them¬ 
selves. Aunt Ellen was getting supper in the 
kitchen. 

“Look here!” cried Anabel, with sudden im¬ 
patience. “Here I ought to be feeling perfectly 
happy, ’cause Lilian says we can exchange right along 
and live here always; and instead of that, there isn’t 
a single thing that looks good to me. I’m so hot, 
and I’m so tired of streets and houses as far as you 
can see, and I don’t see what such a lot of folks are 
for, anyway—folks that you don’t know, not a single 
one of them, and that scold if you so much as laugh 
out loud—and I was so happy at first!” 

Fred laughed again. This time he patted Anabel’s 


A Vacation Exchange 25 5 

head. He felt suddenly very old and wise—much 
more than just two years older than this sobbing 
little girl at his side. He knew so well what was 
the trouble. 

“My dear, it’s just plain United States homesick¬ 
ness,” he announced, a bit airily. “It was all very 
well here until you thought you were going to stay 
here always and never see home again, then it be¬ 
came quite a different matter. But don’t fret, dear. 
We won’t stay. I don’t want to, either,” he con¬ 
fessed. 

“But there’s Lilian and Ralph—you know they 
wanted to exchange,” wailed Anabel. 

“Pooh! What if they do?” rejoined Fred. “We 
never said we’d exchange right along, so they can’t 
hold us to any promises.” 

“But if Lilian has told her folks they won't come 
to the junction to meet us at all,” went on Anabel, 
still unconvinced. “And then what could we do?” 

“Go straight to Fletcherville. The farmhouse is 
big enough to hold us all. We’ll let them stay, too, 
if they want. Who cares?” 

“Splendid!” cried Anabel, springing to her feet. 
“Then we’ll go just as we’d planned at first, and 
we’ll have Kitty and Mother Moll and the boys 
up next summer, and we won’t live in any horrid, 
hot old city; will we? Oh, I’m so glad!” 

Just eighteen hours later two trains rumbled out 
of a certain Massachusetts junction, carrying the 
three Haywoods to Fletcherville, and the four 
Marstons to Boston. 

During the brief ten minutes of waiting at the 
junction, the four excited children and their elders 
had all talked together, exclaiming, questioning and 


Hustler Joe 


256 

recounting experiences—but not once had there been 
so much as a hint of a longer exchange of homes. 

“Well, anyhow/’ confided Lilian to Ralph, as their 
train gathered speed, “Fletcherville is perfectly 
glorious for a vacation, and I’ve had just the nicest 
kind of time; but I’d lots rather live in Boston!” 

Yet at that very moment a certain other little 
girl was saying: 

“Wasn’t it lovely, Fred, and didn’t we have a good 
time? But, of course, when it comes to real, right- 
down living, we’d rather have Fletcherville and the 
farmhouse every time!” 


IV: THE TWINS’ JOURNEY 



























IV: THE TWINS’ JOURNEY 


CHAPTER I 

I T was a busy time for everybody. Not often 
does a whole town try to get a ten-year-old boy 
and a ten-year-old girl ready to go away to 
school; but that is exactly what Pikesville was try¬ 
ing to do. To be sure, Pikesville was not very large. 
It had only a score of houses nestled in the hollow 
of the mountain side; but all Pikesville people were 
out to-day, and many of them were gathered in Mrs. 
Golding’s cottage, where, upstairs in the two little 
rooms under the eaves, the twins were hurrying into 
their clothes. 

Downstairs, Mrs. Golding stood before an open 
suit case with a dozen neighbors around her. 

“You see, there isn’t much, after all, that they 
can take, except the presents,” Mrs. Golding was 
saying with a thoughtful frown. “Of course they 
wear their best, and that’s all they have that’s really 
decent.” 

“Of course,” agreed two or three voices. 

“It certainly is,” spoke up Mrs. Griggs, who was 
standing near the door. “I reckon I know,” she 
added laughingly, “for I mended them all up just 
before they came here last month.” 

“And their stockings—have they a whole pair?” 
demanded a plump little woman near the window. 
“Oh, yes, I bought stockings, and a pair each for a 
259 


260 Hustler Joe 

change,” declared Mrs. Golding. “There are a few 
other things, too, in the way of underclothing that 
will do until they get new; but, of course, for out¬ 
side things-” she stopped and looked at the suit 

case with anxious eyes. 

“Nonsense! Don’t you worry,” comforted Mrs. 
Griggs. “I reckon the aunt would rather buy things 
to suit herself when they get to Boston.” 

“Yes, of course, of course,” murmured Mrs. Gold¬ 
ing. “And now I’ll just pack these,” she finished, 
beginning to tuck away in the suit case the numerous 
little packages that lay on the table near her. She 
named each one as she came to it. 

“Now here are your peppermints, Mrs. Griggs, 
and your husband’s knife; Molly’s pink hair ribbon, 
and Mrs. Smith’s blue one; the puzzle Old Joe 
brought, and the dominoes from Uncle Simon and 

-•” And so on and on she worked and talked, 

while upstairs the twins, to whom all these presents 
had been brought, laced their shoes and combed their 
hair in a rush of hurry and excitement. 

It was not strange, after all, that the whole of 
Pikesville should be getting the twins ready for 
school, for, for the last six years, the whole of Pikes¬ 
ville had helped to bring them up. 

Carrie and Carl Abbott were four years old when 
their mother’s death, very soon after their father’s, 
left them quite alone in the world. Since then the 
neighbors had taken turns giving them a home. 
There had been an aunt in the East, and she had 
been written to immediately after the sudden death 
of the mother; but the aunt had written back that 
she had a sick father and two small children to care 
for, and that she could not possibly go West to get 
the twins. She said that later, when Carl and Carrie 



The Twins’ Journey 261 

were older, they might be sent to her; but she could 
not take them then. 

This had been six years before, and ever since then 
the twins had “lived around” at the homes in Pikes- 
ville; and Pikesville—rough, but kind-hearted—had 
done its best for them. 

Now, however, the people thought it was time for 
a change; not that they were unwilling to take care 
of the twins longer, but that they thought Carl and 
Carrie should have the advantages of the East and 
good schools. 

“And they ought to have a good home, too— 
one that doesn’t change every few minutes,” Mrs. 
Briggs had declared one day, when they were talking 
the matter over. “Their mother came from the 
East, and I’m sure she’d want them brought up and 
educated there among her own people; and I, for 
one, move that we write to their aunt and tell her 
the twins are coming. She said to send them when 
they were older, you know.” 

“Yes, I know she did,” said Mrs. Golding, “and I 
think we’d better write her at once, too. We’ll ask 
Mr. Smith to look up all about the trains, and the 
best one for them to take. Then we’ll set the day 
and tell the aunt, leaving plenty of time for her to 
answer, if she wants any different time set. If we 
don’t hear anything, then we’ll tell her we’ll send 
them along as planned. We shall miss the little 
things, of course. They’re nice chidren; but I think 
they ought to be with their own people now, if ever.” 

“Indeed they should,” agreed Mrs, Smith a little 
soberly. “In fact, I don’t see how we can do any¬ 
thing but send them. I don’t think we ought to keep 
them here another month when we can do so little 
for them!” 


262 Hustler Joe 

So the letter had been written, and as no reply 
had been received to change their plans, Carl and 
Carrie were now to start for Boston. In Mr. Smith’s 
sleigh they were to make the trip down the mountain 
to the big town thirty miles away. There they were 
to board a train for the long journey to Boston, alone. 
Is it any wonder, then, that in the little rooms up 
under the eaves at Mrs. Golding’s they were so ex¬ 
cited they scarcely knew what they were about? 
They were nearly dressed now, however, and through 
the thin partition were calling back and forth to each 
other. 

“Say, Carrie, how nearly ready are you?” asked 
Carl, after a long silence. It was usually Carl who 
spoke first. 

“Oh, almost ready, if only my hair—would—fix— 
right!” jerked Carrie. 

“Ho! You sound as if you were trying to comb 
it with your tongue,” giggled the boy. Then he 
added airily, “I’m glad I’m not a girl with hair that” 
—he stopped rather suddenly, and let his voice trail 
into silence. To tell the truth, Carl at that moment 
was trying to make one particular lock of his own 
hair stay flat down with its neighbors. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Carrie from her room a moment 
later. “0 fear!” 

“What’s the matter? Can’t you fix it? Why don’t 
you cut it off?” Judging by his voice, Carl’s own 
hair was obedient now. “Oh, say, you know,” he 
went on a little importantly, “you’d better not own 
up that you can’t fix it. You know if we couldn’t 
learn to dress all by ourselves, we weren’t to go 
East.” 

“Yes, yes, I know; and I have fixed it,” almost 


The Twins’ Journey 263 

moaned Carrie. “It isn’t my hair any longer; it’s 
my shoe string. I’ve broken it!” 

“Tie it.” 

“Carl Abbott!” answered a shocked voice. “As if 
I could go to Boston with a tied shoe string! My! 
What would Aunt Harriet say? I’ve got to find a 
new one!” 

For another long minute there was silence; then 
Carl spoke again. 

“Find one?” 

“Yes.” 

“Say, Carrie, won’t it be great—just great?” 

“Yes; but, Carl, I can’t make it seem real—not 
really real, can you?” 

“I reckon you’ll think it’s real, all right when we 
get started and are ’way off from here. You know 
we don’t get there till Friday.” 

Something like a choking little cry came from the 
girl’s room. 

“Say, Carl, that’s the trouble—the going away. 
I hate to do it. I want to be East—and here, too.” 

“Humph! Well, I reckon you’d have a little 
trouble trying to do that,” called a voice whose 
cheerfulness was a little forced. 

“I know; but'—Carl, they’ve been so good to us!” 

“They certainly have.” 

“Just think of all those things they brought us— 
the knife and the games and the candy and the hair 
ribbons, besides that lovely great box of luncheon, 
just full of all the things we like best. And they’re 
all waiting downstairs now to see us off. I peeked 
through the window. Lots of them came in, but 
those that didn’t are all hanging around outdoors. 
And, 0 Carl, I can hear bells. Mr. Smith must have 


264 Hustler Joe 

come. Carl, I—I don’t believe I want to go, 
after all.” 

“Children, children, aren’t you ready?” called 
Mrs. Golding’s voice at the foot of the stairs. “Dear, 
dear! If this is the length of time it takes you to 
dress yourselves, how do you expect to get time to 
do anything else?” And, pantingly, Mrs. Golding 
arrived at the top of the stairs ready to look over 
her charges carefully to make sure they were quite 
prepared to start on the long journey before them. 

It is safe to say that in Pikesville never before 
had there been such a scene as when the twins said 
good-by that twenty-fourth of December. Even the 
men’s voices grew husky at times, and the women 
could not hide the fact that they were crying. At 
the same time, everybody talked very loud and very 
fast, and everybody laughed a good deal, for nobody 
wanted Carl and Carrie to cry. 

“Now here’s the luncheon, Carrie; you can carry 
that, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Golding, hurriedly thrust¬ 
ing the big box into the sleigh, and tucking it under 
the robes at Carrie’s feet. 

“And I’ll carry the suit case,” cried Carl. 

“Yes; and, children, write to us just as soon as 
you get there,” cautioned Mrs. Golding. “I’ve put 
in a stamped envelope and some paper and a pencil. 
We shall want to hear right away. Mr. Smith will 
speak to the conductor, and he’ll look out for you. 
Don’t worry,” she called cheerfully as the sleigh 
started and she caught a glimpse of Carrie’s tear- 
dimmed eyes. 

Carl called back a very lusty good-by with what 
he meant to be a wild-Indian war whoop, and Carrie 
waved her mittened hand very gayly; but when they 
turned face forward again, they would not meet each 


The Twins’ Journey 265 

other’s eyes, and for the first few miles of their 
journey Mr. Smith carried two very silent passen¬ 
gers, indeed. 

Back in the town the men and women still lingered 
by the door to talk it over. 

“Well, it’s all right and I’m glad they are gone,” 
declared Old Uncle Simon. “But we shall miss those 
children a heap.” 

“I reckon we shall,” almost sobbed Mrs. Golding; 
“but that aunt can’t say we haven’t done well by 
them, and given them just the best send-off we could 
—raising all that money for the tickets, and telling 
Jim Smith to get good seats on the car, the kind 
they make up nights into little beds. She can’t say 
we haven’t done just as well as their own mother 
would have done!” 

“No, and as she didn’t write us to change the 
plans any, she must have thought everything was 
exactly right. So she’ll expect them, and be there 
to meet them,” concluded Mrs. Griggs. 

It was just here, however, that Mrs. Griggs was 
mistaken, for the aunt had not received any letter 
at all, and so was not expecting the children. That 
letter, in ample time for reply, had been given to 
an old man to mail. But the old man’s hand was 
not sure, and after a time the letter had slipped 
from his bundle of letters and papers to the ground. 
It lay now by the roadside far down the mountain 
under a foot of snow. 

So the woman to whom it was addressed, thou¬ 
sands of miles to the east, could not know, of 
course, that traveling toward her now were a ten- 
year-old boy and a ten-year-old girl, Carl and Carrie 
Abbott, who were even at that moment talking of 
what they would say to Aunt Harriet. 


266 


Hustler Joe 


Carl and Carrie Abbott were not at all alike, even 
though they were twins. Carl had blue eyes and 
fair hair, while Carrie had brown hair, and rather 
wistful, dark eyes. Carl was half an inch taller than 
Carrie, and it was strange how important that half 
inch became—sometimes. Carl had a quick way of 
speaking that gave him usually the first word; and 
as he always spoke before he thought, he had to have 
the last word, too, frequently, so as to correct what 
he had said first. 

Carl was very fond of his sister, and, in spite of an 
occasional thoughtlessness, prided himself on the 
good care he took of her. Carrie, on her part, was 
very fond of her brother, and quite prided himself 
on the good care she took of him. 

Carrie was slower of speech than Carl was, but 
that did not mean that she talked less. In Pikesville 
they thought Carrie talked a great deal. Neither 
of the twins talked much, however, on the trip 
down the mountain till the valley was reached. 
Then, with their mountain home miles behind them, 
they began to question Mr. Smith concerning their 
journey. 


CHAPTER II 


T HERE isn’t very much that I can tell you, and 
that’s a fact,” said Mr. Smith regretfully, in 
answer to the questions of Carl and Carrie on their 
way to the train. “You see, I never traveled very 
far East. I can tell you only about the first of it; 
the rest you’ll have to find out for yourselves.” 
“Well, then, what do we do first?” asked Carl. 
“Well, in about an hour, we’ll stop at Rumford’s 
and get a first-rate dinner,” smiled the man, clucking 
to his horse, as if already the smell of the dinner 
had reached his nostrils. “Then we’ll keep pegging 
right along until we get to the place where you’ll 
take the train. We could have made a train all 
right by going to the Falls, and saved a dozen miles 
or so besides; but ’twouldn’t have been the same 
train, and you’d have had to change to this one in 
the end, which would have been harder for you. I’d 
rather put you on the train myself, then I can 
speak to the conductor, and arrange everything for 
you. The train is one of the big ones, and you’ll go 
straight through to Chicago, where you’ll change for 
another one that will take you clear to Boston. We 
don’t take the train until evening, and we’ll have 
plenty of time to get a good supper before it comes.” 

“Supper!” demurred Carl, in a disappointed voice, 
“Aren’t we ever going to eat our luncheon? You 
know what a big box we have and what a lot of good 
things we have in it!” 

Mr. Smith smiled. 


267 


Hustler Joe 


268 

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about that,” he re¬ 
sponded. “There will be lots of time for that! 
Why, children, I don’t believe you realize it yet. 
This is Monday. You aren’t going to get to Boston 
till Friday. You’ll have plenty of use for that 
luncheon; and if there isn’t enough there, you can 
buy things to eat on the train.” 

“Right on the cars, while they are going?” cried 
Carl. 

“Sure! That’s what they tell me—though I’m 
not saying I ever did it, you know.” 

“But how can they cook in a car?” cried Carrie. 
“Why, it’s full of nothing but seats. I’ve seen the 
cars down at the Falls, two times, but I never saw 
anybody cook in them.” 

Mr. Smith shook his head. 

“You’ll have to ask somebody besides me for that, 
Carrie,” he answered; “but I suspect you’ll find out 
soon enough for yourself. And you’ll find out other 
things, too. You know you sleep on the cars. Had 
you thought of that?” 

“Sleep! I wonder if you think I’m going to 
sleep?” scorned Carl. “I’m going to look out of the 
window every minute. I don’t want to miss seeing 
a thing.” 

“But, Carl, it’s night there just the same as it is at 
home,” remonstrated Mr. Smith. “You can’t see 
things at night.” 

“What? Oh!” laughed Carl, a little sheepishly. 
“Well, I reckon I forgot ’twould be dark. But, any¬ 
how, I’ll look while I can see.” 

“You’ll want to stop looking all right when night 
comes,” asserted Mr. Smith. “Besides, you’re for¬ 
getting about the beds. Maybe you didn’t know, 
but Pikesville made up its mind that you two should 


The Twins 5 Journey 269 

have just the best that was going; so we all clubbed 
together and raised money enough to get one of 
those sections, as they call it, in a sleeper.” 

“What’s a sleeper?” asked Carrie. 

“Pooh! as if everybody didn’t know what a sleeper 
is,” joked Carl good-naturedly. Carl had been in¬ 
tently studying some small tracks in the snow, and 
had not heard all that Mr. Smith had said. “A 
sleeper is somebody who is asleep, of course.” 

Carrie frowned in puzzled wonder. To her this 
definition did not help at all. 

Mr. Smith chuckled. “Well, this doesn’t happen 
to be that kind of sleeper,” he said quite gravely. 
“I meant a railroad sleeper.” 

“Oh, that kind,” retorted Carl, uptilting his chin 
a little. Carl never did like to own up he had made 
a mistake. “Oh, you mean those long pieces of 
wood under the railroad track? Bill Trindle told 
me what those were.” 

This time Mr. Smith laughed outright. 

“Wrong again, Carl!” he teased. “And now you’d 
better give up, for I know you never saw the kind of 
sleeper I mean, and I never did, either, but once— 
and then I didn’t ride in it.” It’s a car where folks 
ride, sitting up daytimes and laying down nights.” 

“Why, Mr. Smith—how?” cried both Carl and 
Carrie in a breath. 

“They make up the beds in the seats.” 

“Real beds?” 

“Sure! That’s what they say.” 

“I should think folks would roll off,” cried Carl; 
“they’re so narrow.” 

“And they aren’t half long enough to lie down on 
—unless you’re even shorter than I am,” chimed in 
Carrie. 


Hustler Joe 


270 

“Well, I don’t know, I don’t know,” answered Mr. 
Smith cheerily. “You’ll find out soon enough for 
yourselves. Getting hungry? We’re almost at 
Rumford’s.” 

They were getting hungry, and they showed it a 
little later when the steaming hot dinner was placed 
before them. After that, once on the way again, 
they began to talk more of the wonderful journey 
they were to take, and of the strange things they 
were to see on the way. They spoke of Aunt Har¬ 
riet, too, and wondered what she would be like, and 
what Boston would be like. 

“Of course Aunt Harriet wants us,” said Carrie a 
little anxiously, after a time, “or she’d have written 
and said for us not to come now.” 

“Of course,” agreed Mr. Smith a little wistfully. 
“She’d better want you! We’re going to miss you 
two chicks a heap, back in Pikesville.” 

“I reckon you won’t miss us any more than we 
shall miss you,” declared Carl stoutly. 

“No, indeed,” almost choked Carrie. 

For some time neither of the twins had anything 
to say, but it was not very long, after all, before they 
were merrily chattering again. They chattered, in¬ 
deed, so fast and so constantly, that at last Mr. 
Smith quite groaned aloud. 

“My, my!” he exclaimed, with a funny sidelong 
glance at each of them, “are you going to keep it up 
like this all the way to Boston?” 

“Of course we aren’t,” declared Carl. “I tell you 
we aren’t going to talk at all on the cars. We’re 
going to look out of the windows all the time—that 
is, except when we sleep,” he added, bethinking 
himself. 

“‘Talk at all!’” muttered Mr. Smith under his 


The Twins 5 Journey 271 

breath; then suddenly he laughed as if he thought 
something was very funny indeed. But all he said 
was: “Humph! Maybe you won’t talk; but I’d 
just like to meet some of those folks you’ll ride with, 
and see what they say, after you’ve reached 
Boston.” 

At five o’clock the biggest town that the twins had 
ever seen was reached, and very eagerly Carl and 
Carrie looked about them. Later came a good, hot 
supper; then, almost before they realized what had 
happened, the huge engine and the long train had 
thundered into the station, and Mr. Smith was 
hurrying them aboard. 

It was all very confusing then, to the twins. They 
knew that Mr. Smith said something very earnestly 
to a big man in a blue suit and a blue cap, also to a 
black man who smiled and nodded his head many 
times, and who bowed very low, showed all his teeth, 
and said: “Yes, sah, thank you, sah! I’ll see 
they’re all right, sah!” when Mr. Smith put some 
money in his hand. Then Mr. Smith turned to 
them, and tried to say something; but a bell rang, 
and men shouted outside, and there was time for only 
a very hurried good-by before Carl and Carrie found 
themselves alone on a wide, high-backed seat oppo¬ 
site another wide, high-backed seat, whereupon 
rested their suit case and the big box of luncheon. 
The next instant the train started, and the journey 
had begun. 

“Carrie, look! There’s Mr. Smith waving!” cried 
Carl. “Wave back—quick!” 

“I’m g-going to,” answered Carrie a little chok¬ 
ingly. Her handkerchief was already in her hand— 
for another purpose—but she hoped Carl would 
think she got it out just to wave with him. And 


Hustler Joe 


272 

she did wave until Mr. Smith was quite out of sight. 
The next moment she turned, winking her eyes very 
fast as she asked a little quaveringly, “Carl, have we 
everything—every single thing?” 

“ ’Course we have, but I reckon we couldn’t help it 
now if we hadn’t,” he retorted. Carl, too, was wink¬ 
ing his eyes rather fast, and opening them very wide 
after every wink; but his voice, as he spoke, was de¬ 
terminedly cheerful. 

“The tickets, all of them?” questioned Carrie. 

“Sure! They’re in the envelope inside my very 
safest pocket, where Mr. Smith said to keep them. 
And the money’s there, too, in my purse, except the 
half you’ve got. You know we each have two dol¬ 
lars. I told Mr. Smith I thought I ought to have it 
all to take care of, as I was bigger than you, but he 
said, ‘No.’ Now, Carrie, don’t you lose that money. 
You know you’re a girl, and girls are always losing 
things. They don’t have so many good pockets as 
boys do.” 

Carrie sniffed a little mischievously. Her eyes 
were not teary now. She was beginning to feel the 
excitement of the occasion. 

“Don’t you worry, little boy. When you lose 
your money, I’ll have some of mine to give you,” 
she retorted, calling him by the name she always 
used to tease him with when he spoke not quite 
respectfully of girls and their ways. 

“Ho!” bristled Carl, lifting his chin a little higher. 
“You see!” 

“Yes, I’ll see,” nodded Carrie still mischievously. 
Then, with Carl, she began to look about them 
curiously. Their seat was in the middle of the car. 
Across the aisle sat a large, red-faced man reading 
a newspaper. He did not look very pleasant, de- 


The Twins’ Journey 273 

cided Carrie. The backs of the seats were too high 
for them to see many of their neighbors in the car, 
but by peering around the end of their seat, they 
did discover a very beautiful lady with big, sad 
eyes, sitting all alone in one seat, and two young 
men playing checkers in another. 

The big, blue-coated man came in after a time, 
spoke to them kindly, and asked to see their tickets. 
He tore off something, punched two little round 
holes in something else, and tucked the whole back 
in the envelope. Later, another blue-coated man 
came. He, too, smiled at them kindly, and asked to 
see the tickets. He said something about “Section” 
and “Chicago,” and he, also took strange liberties 
with some of those precious tickets. But in a mo¬ 
ment he, too, handed them back; and Carl breathed 
again. 

The black man, with the very white teeth, seemed 
to be everywhere, running about with cushions and 
pillows and glasses of water. Twice Carl heard him 
called “porter,” so when he came up at last and 
asked Carl if there was anything he wanted, Carl 
smiled very politely, and said, “No, thank you, Mr. 
Porter,” which seemed to please the black man very 
much, for he showed all his teeth in a very wide 
smile. 

Carl was not talking very much now, neither was 
Carrie. Their eyes felt heavy, and their heads still 
heavier. The lights winked and blinked strangely, 
and the rumble of the wheels sounded far away in 
their ears. 

“I wonder when it’s bedtime on the cars,” mur¬ 
mured Carrie, lifting her head with a little jerk. 
The next moment the black man came toward them. 

“I s’pect maybe you two are sleepy,” he began, 


Hustler Joe 


274 

with his wide smile. “Just you sit over there while 
I fix you up,” he added, pointing to an empty seat a 
little way down the car. 

But if Carl and Carrie had been sleepy before, 
they were certainly not so any longer, for with ex¬ 
cited, fascinated eyes they watched the black man 
turn their section into two of the strangest beds 
they had even seen. From a queer shelf let down 
from the top, he took blankets, pillows, curtains, and 
among other things, little sliding panels of wood. 
From somewhere he brought pillow cases and sheets. 
And when the whole thing was done, the seats were 
one little bed all complete, and the shelf was an¬ 
other, with a wooden partition at top and bottom, 
and a long, thick curtain in front. 

“Now when you’re ready, it’s all ready for you,” 
smiled the porter. “We’ll put the young gentleman 
at the top.” 

“Young gentleman! ” Carl seemed to grow a head 
taller in a minute. 

“Oh, yes, I’ll take the top,” he answered care¬ 
lessly. 

Carl and Carrie were a good while getting ready 
for bed that night. Carrie bumped her head every 
five minutes on the “roof,” as she called the shelf 
over her head; and everything she took off she lost 
right away, and had to feel around in the dim light 
to hunt for it. At last she discovered the little 
hammock hanging across the window, which proved 
to be a very safe place for her hair ribbon, her col¬ 
lar, her tie and any other little thing that she wanted 
to tuck away. 

“Upstairs,” as he called it, Carl was so occupied 
in poking his head out between the curtains to see 


The Twins’ Journey 275 

what was going on in the car, that he did not make 
much headway undressing. 

At last, however, Carl and Carrie called themselves 
ready for bed, said their usual good-night prayers 
and tucked themselves in between the sheets; but 
neither of them was sleepy now. It was all too 
strange. The car, too, was full of noise and con¬ 
fusion. Other berths were being made up, and 
other people were getting ready for bed. 

Wide-eyed and excited, Carl in the upper berth, 
and Carrie in the lower, lay still and thought. Per¬ 
haps they were a little lonesome; perhaps they were 
a little frightened; perhaps they were a little home¬ 
sick. At all events, suddenly Carrie became con¬ 
scious of a hand and arm thrust down from the upper 
berth on the inside of the curtain; then a hoarse 
whisper demanded, “Carrie, are you awake?” 

Carrie reached up and patted the hand. “0 Carl! 
Yes! Are you?” 

A half-stifled giggle floated downward. 

“Oh, no! Pm talking in my sleep, I am!” 

It was Carrie’s turn to giggle. She was tired, ex¬ 
cited, and a little nervous, and was quite ready either 
to laugh or cry. Then Carl spoke again. He did 
not whisper this time. 

“Say, Carrie, isn’t this great?” 

“Splendid!” 

“I like going to Boston.” 

“So—so do I, only I—I would like to see the folks 
back home—just a minute; wouldn’t you?” 

“Course I would; but then, we’re going to some¬ 
body, you know—Aunt Harriet. Say, Carrie, how 
do you think she looks?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“I know how I hope she’ll look.” 


Hustler Joe 


276 

“How?” 

“I hope she’ll be little and jolly and lively, like 
Mrs. Snow,” declared Carl. 

“Oh, I don’t,” almost choked Carrie. “I hope 
she’ll be big and round, and have nice shoulders to 
cry on.” 

“Pooh! Who wants to cry?” retorted Carl 
valiantly; but his voice shook a little. Carrie’s 
words had exactly described Mrs. Golding, and Carl 
was very fond of Mrs. Golding. 

For a long minute there was silence, then Carrie 
asked a little huskily: 

“Carl, did you think? To-morrow will be Christ¬ 
mas. ’Twill be kind of lonesome; won’t it?—just us 
two—alone!” 

“Ho! We’ll get along all right. I’m just longing 
for it to come daylight, so I can look out. Say, 
where do you suppose we are?” 

Both the children were talking very loudly now. 
They seemed to have forgotten that there was any¬ 
body else in the car. For another five minutes they 
called gleefully back and forth; then Carl suddenly 
gave a chuckling laugh. 

“0 Carrie, listen! I’ve thought of something so 
funny. We’re in a sleeper, and we’re running over a 
lot of other sleepers, and just as soon as we get 
asleep we’ll be sleepers ourselves!” 

Carrie began to laugh, but almost instantly she 
stopped. From across the aisle had come a very 
cross man’s voice. The train had stopped at a sta¬ 
tion, and his words rang out distressingly loud and 
clear. 

“Well, maybe the rest of us would like to be 
sleepers, too, if you’d give us half a chance! Sup- 


The Twins’ Journey 277 

pose you two chatterboxes hush up awhile, and let 
us try!—eh?” 

Neither Carl nor Carrie answered. They were too 
frightened to speak. From down the aisle in the 
direction of the two young men who had been play¬ 
ing checkers came a half-stifled chuckle ; otherwise 
there was silence. 

Carl waited a minute, then quietly he flung down 
his hand again and wriggled his fingers. Carrie 
caught them, and gave them two expressive squeezes. 
Then, resolutely, the two children settled them¬ 
selves, and tried to go to sleep. 


CHAPTER III 


T HOROUGHLY tired out from the experiences 
of the day before, Carl and Carrie awoke very 
late that Christmas morning. It was some time be¬ 
fore they managed to dress themselves enough to 
finish their toilets in the little rooms at the ends of 
the car. And it was still longer before they were 
ready to open the luncheon box and eat their break¬ 
fast in their section, which the porter had again 
turned into seats. But when, at last, they were 
ready, how hungry they were, and how good every¬ 
thing tasted! 

After breakfast they began to look about them, 
and to talk together; but they talked very quietly, 
and with frequent glances toward the big, red-faced 
man across the aisle. They were very sure that the 
voice the night before had come from him, and they 
told each other in whispers that he certainly looked 
cross enough, scowling over his magazine, and that 
they did not like him at all. 

One thing the twins had found very disappoint¬ 
ing. It had begun to snow the night before, just as 
they reached the big town where they were to take 
the train; and now when they eagerly looked out of 
the window, the first thing that Christmas morning, 
they found it still snowing. There was not one 
thing to be seen but whirling, driving flakes that hid 
everything from sight. 

“And we can’t see one thing,” mourned Carl. 
“Never mind; there are heaps to see, inside,” 
278 


The Twins’ Journey 279 

Carrie soothed him. “Besides, we have the puzzle 
and the dominoes, and those two storybooks, you 
know.” 

Carl frowned. 

“I can do all those things on land. I mean, I 
can do them when I’m home, sitting still. Now I’m 
traveling, and I want to see things, and there isn’t 
a thing to see but snow, snow. So, there! ” It was 
not often that Carl spoke quite so impatiently; and 
even now, as he snapped out the last word, he smiled 
shamefacedly. 

“But there are things to see inside,” argued Carrie 
earnestly. “Come, let’s play we’re in a strange 
country, and that we’re going exploring. You go 
north, and I’ll go south; I mean, you go to one end 
of the car, and I’ll go to the other. We’ll look just 
on one side, then we’ll come back and tell what we’ve 
discovered. Next we’ll explore east and west. Of 
course we’ll have to go to the ends of the car just 
the same, only we’ll take opposite sides that time. 
See?” 

“Y-yes,” consented Carl, a little grudgingly; and 
he got up and started toward the rear of the car, but 
not before he had given one lingering glance out of 
the window. 

Two minutes later the twins were back in their 
seats. 

“Well?” demanded Carrie. 

“Oh, go on. You tell first.” 

“All right, then I’ll begin.” Carrie’s eyes sparkled. 
Carrie loved to tell stories, and to imagine things. 
She dropped her voice and spoke in an impressive 
manner. 

“To the north I found strange and wonderful 
things. First a narrow passage that led on and on 


280 Hustler Joe 

to a glass door. I looked through the door, but did 
not go in. I saw a queer little room with more 
doors, and shining railing^; but the floor there 
teetered up and down—er—er—like anything,” she 
finished lamely. 

“Pooh!” scoffed Carl airily. “That's only where 
it leads into the next car.” But Carrie paid no at¬ 
tention to this remark. 

“On the way back,” she resumed, with her old im¬ 
pressiveness, “I explored the tribes that live there. 
I found a woman with sorry eyes, holding a book, 
but looking out of the window at the snow. Next 
to her I found a man asleep. Next to him another 
woman who had a baby that was crying. Next, 
there was—was—an uninhabited region; a wild 
desert of seats with nobody in them. Now, what 
did you discover?” she asked in her ordinary voice. 

Carl hitched in his seat. Carl never imagined 
things. 

“Nothing, only two men playing checkers, and 
two women talking, and an old lady taking a nap,” 
he answered, with a shrug. 

“Good! Now we’ll go to the east and the west,” 
cried Carrie, springing to her feet. “I think it’s 
going to be awfully interesting there,” she finished 
as she danced into the aisle. 

“Look-a-here,” growled an angry voice; and Carrie 
turned to find the red-faced man scowling at her 
over his magazine. “Can’t you two little jumping- 
jacks sit still a minute? What do you think this 
car is, anyway—a playground built specially for 
you?” 

Carrie sat down. So did Carl. The man, seeing 
all the light flee from their faces, felt, perhaps, a 
little ashamed of his brusqueness. 


The Twins’ Journey 281 

“I’m sure I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings,” he 
said then a little less crossly. “But, you see, there 
are other people in the car besides yourselves, and 
you seem to be forgetting it; that’s all.” And he 
turned back to his magazine. 

Across the aisle Carl and Carrie sat very still for 
some time. Carl looked a little angry, and Carrie, 
as if she wanted to cry. Later, Carrie got out the 
dominoes, and very quietly they began to play. 

Toward noon a round-faced boy came through the 
car with books. Later he appeared with a basket 
of assorted chocolates and wafers. It was then that 
Carl lifted his head with sudden determination. 

“Carrie,” he whispered, throwing a sidelong glance 
toward the red-faced man across the aisle. “I’m 
going to buy some candy. You know they said we 
could spend a little of our money.” 

“But we’ve got candy,” demurred Carrie. 

“We haven’t any chocolates, and I want choco¬ 
lates.” 

“I know, but they said we’d better save our money 
to buy something to eat if our luncheon box 
shouldn’t last till we got there.” 

“Well, chocolates are things to eat,” declared Carl, 
reaching for his money. “Anyhow, I’m going to 
have some. I shall not spend much, of course, 

but-” He stopped suddenly, his face growing a 

little white. The next instant he was hurrying 
through all his pockets with shaking hands. “Why, 
Carrie, I can’t—find—my—money,” he gasped. 

“You don’t mean you’ve lost it?” 

“Why, no, of course it isn’t 1-lost,” stammered the 
boy. “It’s just that I can’t find it.” 

Carrie’s lips flew open. It was plain to be seen 
that a tantalizing “I told you so” was all ready to 


282 Hustler Joe 

come. But the next moment the lips snapped tight 
shut; and when they opened again, it was to utter a 
cheerful: 

“Never mind, Carl. I have some money, and you 
may have some of mine.” 

Carl shook his head. He motioned to the boy— 
who had stopped at his seat—to go on. Then he 
turned to his sister, his face a little red. 

“Carrie, you’re great—not to say—what you 
might. No,” he went on emphatically, “I’m just 
as much obliged, but I reckon I better go without 
chocolates if I don’t know enough to keep my money 
to buy them with. Besides, if my money’s gone, 
we’d better hold on to yours. But, say, Carrie, I 
should like to know where that money is!” 

“So should I,” murmured Carrie. 

A little later, when the red-faced man had left the 
car for a time, the twins made a thorough search for 
the little brown leather purse that contained the 
money; but they did not find it. Then, rather 
soberly, they opened their luncheon box for their 
mid-day meal. 

“I wonder,” sighed Carl dolefully, “if this box will 
really last.” 

“We’ve got to make it last,” declared Carrie, care¬ 
fully counting out two sandwiches apiece, “for I 
haven’t seen any food anywhere that folks can 
buy.” 

“But where do these other folks eat?” questioned 
Carl. “I haven’t seen one with a luncheon box, but 
all of them got up and went out somewhere this 
morning, and now again this noon.” 

“I don’t know,” admitted Carrie, pursing her lips 
a little tightly, “but I do know that if there is any¬ 
thing to eat anywhere, I don’t know where it is. So 


The Twins’ Journey 283 

we’vs got to make this box last.” And neither Carl 
nor Carrie noticed that the porter was at that mo¬ 
ment going through the car, saying, “Last call for 
luncheon.” They would not have understood what 
he meant if they had heard him. 

It was a gloomy afternoon. Outdoors it still 
snowed—even harder now. In their seats the twins 
brought out the puzzle and the dominoes, but neither 
one was a success; and after a time they took up 
their books and tried to read. They talked a little, 
though Carl did say once, aggrievedly: 

“Seems to me I needn’t have lost my money, and 
had it Christmas Day all at once! If if were not 
Christmas I think I could stand the rest. But, 
Carrie, it’s Christmas—and look at us! We can’t 
even talk out loud for fear he’ll hear us,” he finished, 
jerking his thumb toward the man across the aisle. 

The twins had not noticed—what many others 
had—that the speed of the train had been lessening 
very perceptibly for the last hour. But they did 
look up in surprise when the train stopped altogether, 
with still nothing to be seen outside but the whirling, 
dancing snow. 

Across the aisle the red-faced man sprang suddenly 
to his feet. 

“I declare, I believe we’re stuck,” he was mutter¬ 
ing under his breath. Then he strode toward the 
forward end of the car. 

It was not long before everyone knew it—the en¬ 
gine was fast in a huge snow-drift, and could not go 
on. They were quite likely to remain where they 
were for some hours, all night, perhaps—even longer, 
possibly. And it was Christmas! 

Everyone in the car then seemed suddenly to 
awake to the situation. The red-faced man came 


Hustler Joe 


284 

back with his face even redder than before, and with 
a terrible scowl on his forehead. Irritably, he jerked 
another magazine from his bag, and then, after a 
particularly unpleasant look all about the car, he 
settled himself to read. The young men who had 
been playing checkers all the afternoon said some 
sharp words under their breath and hurried from the 
car. The sad-eyed woman down the aisle fretfully 
called for a pillow, and settled herself for a nap. The 
baby cried—whereat the sad-eyed lady looked dis¬ 
pleased. Even the old lady at the other end of the 
car tapped her fingers nervously, lost all interest in 
her knitting, and gazed sorrowfully out at the driv¬ 
ing snow. Indeed it was not a very cheerful-looking 
company—and it was Christmas! 

“See here/’ whispered Carl, at last, “I’m going to 
explore. I just must do something!” And he 
jerked himself to his feet. 

“But, Carl, you—you mustn’t. You’ll get l-lost,” 
quavered Carrie. 

“Lost!—on a train stuck fast in a drift,” laughed 
Carl. “I couldn’t; don’t you see? I’m just going 
through some of the other cars to find out things. 
All the men do,” he finished a little importantly. 
Then, with a reassuring smile, he tossed back at her, 
“Just you wait till I come and tell you what I’ve dis¬ 
covered ! ” The next moment he was gone. 

It was some time before he came back, but when 
he did appear his face was all aglow with eagerness. 

“See here, Carrie, come with me,” he whispered. 
“It’s the greatest fun ever. There are heaps of cars, 
some like this, and some very different. And, say, 
there is a car where you eat—all fixed up with pretty 
little tables, and everything fine. But it costs like 
fun to eat there—I asked a man. 


The Twins’ Journey 28 £ 

“And, Carrie, look a-here, beyond that there’s 
another car, and there are lots of folks in it; and it 
isn’t all quiet like this. Why, there is one woman 
with five children, and they’re taking on something 
awful. They weren’t going to Boston. They were 
going to get off at the next station to-night, where 
their grandmother lives. And there was going to be 
a tree, and presents and everything. And now 
they’re shut up here with nothing. No wonder 
they’re crying! I reckon we know what it is—not 
to have any Christmas! But come on, I want you to 
see the car with the tables.” And glad of something 
to do at last, Carrie happily skipped off at her 
brother’s side. 

It was wonderful, indeed, to go through that long 
train of cars, and very interestedly the twins, hand 
in hand, went through them. They lingered a little, 
perhaps, in the car where were the pretty white 
tables; though before very long they reached the one 
where were the woman and the five disappointed 
children. And then Carrie heard all over again 
about the tree and the presents that were waiting 
miles beyond their reach. 

There were Tom, five; Mary, seven; a pair of twin 
girls, Rose and Rita, nine, and Edgar, a boy of 
twelve; and a sorrier-looking set of boys and girls 
Carrie never had seen. Most of them were crying, 
and all of them looked as if they had forgotten how 
to laugh. 

“And that isn’t the worst of it,” moaned the 
mother, “we haven’t a thing with us to eat, and 
what’ll they be when they’re hungry?” she said de¬ 
spairingly. “You see, we didn’t leave home till this 
noon, and we expected to get our supper at grand¬ 
mother’s. And now-” She did not finish, but 


Hustler Joe 


286 

with a discouraged sigh picked up Mary, and tried 
to soothe her whimpering. 

“But can’t you buy something in the car where 
the tables are?” ventured Carrie. 

The woman shook her head. 

“It costs too much to eat there, my dear; besides, 
we haven’t hardly any money with us.” 

It was then that Carrie pulled at her brother’s 
sleeve, and motioned him away. At the far end of 
the car she turned, her face alight. 

“Carl, Carl, I have a splendid idea! Just listen! 
Those children shall have a Christmas—and we’ll 
give it to them.” 

Carl stared. 

“We’ll give it to them!” he exclaimed. “Why, 
Carrie, how can we? We haven’t a mite of Christ¬ 
mas ourselves, so how can we have one to give 
away!” 

Carrie laughed gleefully. 

“I’ll tell you. You’ll see! But first come back 
into our own car, where they won’t hear us talk.” 


CHAPTER IV 


/^\NCE again in their seats, Carrie told her plans 
^ for the Christmas celebration. She spoke in 
whispers—she still remembered the red-faced man 
across the aisle. 

“We’ll give them some of our things, Carl; don’t 
you see? The things the folks back home gave us— 
the peppermints and the puzzle and the hair 
ribbons.” 

“Why, yes, we could; couldn’t we?” cried Carl 
interestedly. “Those little girls would like the hair 
ribbons, wouldn’t they?” 

“Yes, and there’s your knife for the boy, too. 
That’ll be just the thing for him!” 

Carl frowned suddenly. 

“Y-yes,” he admitted; “maybe it would. “Still”— 
Carl hesitated, and bit his lip. After a moment he 
turned, his face a little brighter. “Say, Carrie, I 
don’t know, after all as we ought to do it. You 
know those things were given to us, and I’m afraid 
Mrs. Golding and all the rest wouldn’t like it if we 
gave them away. They’d feel hurt.” 

Carrie looked up sharply. 

“Carl Abbott—it’s your knife that’s the trouble— 
you know it is! You don’t want that boy to have it. 
As if I didn’t know why you’re suddenly so afraid 
somebody’s feelings will be hurt!” 

Carrie spoke this aloud. She quite forgot to whis¬ 
per. Across the aisle the red-faced man turned 
abruptly. Even the lady with the sorry eyes stirred 
a little in her seat. 


287 


288 


Hustler Joe 


Carl flushed a shamed red. 

“Why, Carrie, it isn’t so, either,” he stammered. 
“Of course he can have my knife! It’s only that— 
that—why, Carrie, you know it isn’t nice to give 
things away that were given to you. It—it’s just as 
if you didn’t care about them!” 

“ ‘Care about them,’ ” echoed Carrie scornfully. 
“You know they won’t think that about these things, 
Carl, for they saw us when we received them, and 
they knew how we liked them. Didn’t I ’most cry 
because those pink and blue hair ribbons were such 
a beautiful color, and because I hadn’t had a new 
one for a whole year? I don’t think they’ll worry 
for fear we don’t care for these things. But they’d 
want us to give them away, I know they would; 
especially if they could see those five children, and 
know that they’d lost their Christmas tree.” 

“Hm-m; maybe, maybe they would,” admitted 
Carl, with the air of one who is trying very hard to 
let himself be convinced. “Still, you know, we 
can’t give them a tree.” 

Carrie’s face fell. 

“I know it. Of course, all we can do is to give 
them the things—just give them to them, you know; 
but that will be something. I think we ought to 
give them some of our luncheon, too, Carl. You 
know they haven’t anything.” 

“But they could buy something in the car where 
they eat,” suggested Carl. 

“They haven’t any money to do that; the lady 
said so. And you said yourself that it costs a lot to 
eat where the tables”— Carrie stopped suddenly. A 
new idea seemed to have come to her. “Carl, Carl,” 
she cried. “I’ve just thought of the loveliest thing!” 

“What is it?” 


The Twins’ Journey 289 

“I sha’n’t tell you—yet. But, wait—you’ll see. 
I think—I think I’m going to have a tree. Just you 
wait till I get back.” And breathlessly Carrie hur¬ 
ried out of the car. 

When Carrie came back to her seat, a little later, 
she triumphantly carried a tiny evergreen tree in a 
pot. She had remembered that in the dining car 
she had seen several of these little trees used evi¬ 
dently for Christmas decoration; and she determined 
to get one if she could. She evidently did not have 
to tease very long for it, as very soon she was back 
in her own car, hugging the pot to her breast. She 
was coming slowly. It was about all she could carry. 

At Carl’s exclamation of wonder and delight, 
everyone in the car looked up and saw Carrie with 
the tree. 

“There, now, I reckon we can give them a tree, all 
right,” panted Carrie, as she carefully set the pot 
down on the suit case which Carl had laid flat on 
the opposite seat. 

“My, my, how splendid!” cried Carl. His face 
was all interest now. He had evidently forgotten 
all about the knife, and the friends who would feel 
hurt if the presents were given away. “Now how 
shall we trim it?” 

It was a happy hour that the twins spent then. 
They forgot their surroundings, and paid no atten¬ 
tion to the people about them. They forgot the 
snow outside, the lost two dollars, and even the 
red-faced man across the aisle, as they busily set to 
work to trim their tree. 

They had not much to do it with, but they made 
the most of what they had. Wrapped around one of 
their presents they found a gilt paper band. This 
they cut into tiny stars, and hung them by a bit of 


Hustler Joe 


290 

thread to the tree branches. Out of some white 
tissue paper they cut little festoons to imitate strings 
of popcorn. With some difficulty they pierced sev¬ 
eral of the pink and white pepermints with a needle 
and thread, and hung these, too, upon the tree 
branches. The presents, of course, were too heavy 
for so small a tree, but the pot at its base was large 
enough to hold the hair ribbons, the knife—tied up 
by Carl himself—a pair of red mittens, a handker¬ 
chief and a bottle of perfume, all neatly wrapped up 
and tied with red thread from Carrie’s work box, and 
labeled with a name. There was a gift for each 
child, and one for the mother; and the tree, with its 
gilt paper stars, white festoons and pink and white 
peppermints, began to present a very festive appear¬ 
ance as it neared completion. 

Meanwhile, throughout the car a curious change 
had taken place. If the twins had forgotten their 
traveling companions, their traveling companions 
had certainly not forgotten the twins. Moreover, 
they were getting decidedly interested. 

The two young men—the checker-players—had 
strolled three times by the seat, their eyes on the 
tree. The lady with the baby had deliberately 
walked up several seats to the one next the twins’. 
Indeed, the “wild, uninhabited region,” of Carrie’s 
morning report was no longer a “desert,” as others, 
too had seized the opportunity to get nearer the 
tree. 

The sad-eyed lady, with almost a look of interest 
on her face, was watching the twins intently. The 
old lady had even forgotten to knit, so engrossed was 
she in the way the tree decorations were growing. 
Even the red-faced man in the seat across the aisle— 
though he pretended to be reading—had not turned 


The Twins’ Journey 291 

a page for the last half hour; and one of the checker- 
players told the other that thej red-faced man’s 
magazine was upside down, anyway. 

“And now,” said Carrie, as the last gold star was 
hung in place, “now for the luncheon box! Then I 
think we’re all ready.” 

With an audible sigh, Carl reached for the 
luncheon box and took off the cover for his sister. 
Anxiously he watched her as she counted out five 
sandwiches and five pieces of cake. But he said 
nothing. It was Carrie who sighed this time. 

“It does make the box look kind of empty; doesn’t 
it?” she murmured, as she gazed into the box a 
little ruefully. 

Carl swallowed hard once or twice. Then with 
some difficulty he spoke. “Yes; but say, Carrie, 
you’ve only five cakes and sandwiches there, and 
hadn’t the mother—won’t she be hungry, too?” 

Carrie gave a little cry of dismay. 

“Why, Carl, of course she will—and I haven’t a 
thing for her! My, but I’m glad you thought.” 
And she thrust her hand into the box again. 

It was this point that the red-faced man across the 
aisle suddenly dropped his magazine. 

“See here,” he growled. His voice was just as 
cross as ever, but there was an almost boyish eager¬ 
ness in his eyes. “See here, you children just stay 
where you are a minute, and don’t you stir till I 
come back. Now remember, don’t you stir,” he 
finished, as he hurried out of the car. 

Thoroughly frightened, Carl and Carrie sat, as he 
had commanded them to sit, without stirring ex¬ 
cept to turn their eyes upon each other in silent 
dismay. They had not seen the almost boyish eager¬ 
ness in the man’s face—they had heard only the 


Hustler Joe 


292 

voice; and they expected now nothing short of some 
terrible punishment to be administered when the 
man would come back with perhaps one of the blue- 
coated men, “Mr. Porter,” or some other alarming 
creature who would take away their tree and spoil 
all their plans. In motionless terror, therefore, they 
sat waiting. 

Other people in the car sat waiting, too, but they 
were not frightened. They were not frightened even 
for the twins. They had heard the cross voice, to 
be sure; but they had seen the eagerness in the eyes, 
as well, and they sat up now themselves very in¬ 
terestedly, their own eager eyes watching for him to 
come back. And when he came back, and they saw 
him, they settled into their seats again with a satis¬ 
fied smile. But they still watched. 

Up the aisle hurried the red-faced man, his hands 
bearing a big box cover on which lay a pile of 
grapes, a loaf of frosted cake and a dozen golden- 
brown rolls. 

“There!” he exclaimed with a gruffness that did 
not deceive even Carl and Carrie this time. “Now 
tuck those sandwiches of yours back into your box 
and take these into those children instead!” 

“Oh, thank you, thank you!” crowed Carl and 
Carrie together; and Carl added with unflattering 
emphasis: “Why, you are nice; aren’t you? Er— 
er—that is,” he corrected hastily, “of course, you 
were nice, too!” 

Even the red-faced man had to laugh at this, and 
half the car joined with him. Then the two young 
checker-players sprang to their feet. 

“Oh, I say, you know,” they called out; “you 
needn’t think you are going to have all the fun! 
Just hold on a minute.” And they jerked their suit 


The Twins’ Journey 293 

cases open and began to fumble in them hurriedly. 
A minute later they were striding toward Carl and 
Carrie with several fancy boxes in their hands. 

“We were taking this candy home for Christmas,” 
explained the taller of the two fellows. 

“Yes, and ’twould be too late now, of course; so 
maybe you’ll take it off our hands,” added the other, 
with what was meant to be a careless air. 

“Oh, oh! ” chorused the twins even more gleefully. 
“How perfectly splendid! Why, they’ll be glad 
they’re snowed up! Only think—all these things! 
Why, there’ll be enough for the others to have some. 
You see, there are lots of children in that car.” 

“Eh? What?” exploded the red-faced man, as he 
saw Carrie gathering up the things, yet making no 
move to put back her own sandwiches and cakes into 
the box. “Are you two precious infants going to 
starve yourselves to feed the whole carful in there?” 

The twins laughed. They even looked fearlessly 
straight into the red-faced man’s eyes. 

“We aren’t infants, and we aren’t going to starve 
ourselves,” chuckled Carl merrily. 

“And there are lots left now in the box,” added 
Carrie with eager earnestness. “You don’t know— 
really you don’t know—how hungry and lonesome 
they are in there.” 

“Humph! Bless me, ‘bless me!” muttered the 
man, getting to his feet again. “Here now, you just 
wait a minute till I come back. Now, mind again; 
don’t you stir,” he finished, as he hurried once more 
out of the car. 

The twins did stir this time—but it was a happy 
stir—putting the final touches to the tree and their 
presents. Others in the car stirred, too; in fact, the 
whole car seemed to be in sudden commotion. Down 


Hustler Joe 


294 

the aisle the little old lady dropped her knitting, 
opened a reticule on the seat at her side and thrust 
shaking fingers within. In the other direction, the 
sad-eyed lady—sad-eyed no longer—was taking from 
a large suit case a quantity of different-sized, differ¬ 
ent-shaped packages, done up in white paper and 
tied with red ribbon. From most of these she re¬ 
moved the little tags bearing “Happy New Year” 
and a name. Only two or three of the packages did 
she put back, wrappings untouched, in the bag; then, 
from somewhere, she produced other blank tags and 
a pencil, and began to write briskly. On two tags 
she wrote, “Merry Christmas to Carrie”; on two 
others, “Merry Christmas to Carl.” Then she left 
her seat and went over to the twins. 

“What are the names, my dear, of the five children 
in the other car, please? You see I had some New 
Year presents that I think will help them out for 
their Christmas.” 

“Oh, have you?” exulted Carrie. “I’m so glad! 
There’s Tom, the littlest, then Mary, she’s seven, and 
the twins, Rose and Rita, a little older, and Edgar, 
the big boy.” 

“Thank you,” murmured the lady, hurrying back 
to her seat. 

Across the aisle from her, the lady with the baby 
stopped a moment in her task of doing up a Teddy 
bear. 

“Did she say the smallest one’s name was Tom?” 
she whispered excitedly. 

“Yes,” nodded the sad-eyed lady, only this time 
her eyes fairly danced. 

At that moment the red-faced man came back. 
He carried a newspaper heaped with bananas and 
oranges. 


The Twins 5 Journey 295 

“They wouldn't sell me much—what I wanted/' 
he panted. “Said they didn't know how long we'd 
be blocked before we could get fresh supplies. But 
I did get some things," he finished, carefully laying 
his burden on the seat. “Now, when you’re ready, 
just say the word, and I'll help carry the things." 

“Oh, but there are all these, also," interposed the 
lady that was sad-eyed; “so I'm going to help, too." 

“And I," quavered the little old lady, hurrying 
forward. “I couldn't find much, but I have some¬ 
thing—a little something that I want to give. I 
want to help." 

“Of course! We're all going to help," asserted 
the younger checker-player. “We're going in a 
regular procession, with Carl and the tree in front. 
Now, ready—form! Young man, just please take 
the tree and lead." 

It was, indeed, a regular procession that at last 
trailed its excited, joyous way into the car where the 
five children were mourning for a Christmas that 
was lost. And what a commotion it created! The 
five children stopped mourning and stared. Other 
children, and men and women stared, too, as Carl, 
with a gleeful “Merry Christmas!" advanced to the 
center of the car, placed the tree carefully on an 
empty seat, then stood aside to make room for those 
behind him to lay down their gifts also. 

And what a Christmas that was, to be sure! Out¬ 
side, the wind howled and the snow blew, but inside, 
no one noticed. The whole car was alive with laugh¬ 
ter, fun and Christmas cheer. There was not a child 
in the car who did not have some gift, together with 
cake and candy, and a big, round orange, or a banana. 
Even Carl and Came, to their unbounded amaze¬ 
ment, found four little packages bearing their names: 


Hustler Joe 


296 

a pretty little bead necklace and a new book for 
Carrie; a particularly fine knife and another book 
for Carl. 

The older ones, too, enjoyed the fruit and the 
candy, nor did the sandwiches, rolls and cake re¬ 
main long before they melted from sight. Even the 
conductors, the porter and a brakeman, who were 
hovering around the doorways, were not forgotten; 
for the red-faced man spied them and hailed them 
jovially, insisting that they, too, come and join in 
the feast. 

When it was all over, the procession formed once 
more and trailed back into the sleeping car; then 
everybody settled down again into the seats. But 
with what a change! 

Carl and Carrie talked like magpies—and the red- 
faced man only beamed at them from across the car. 
The checker-players got out their game again—but 
this time they had the little old lady for a spectator. 
It seemed that she, too, liked checkers, and when 
the young fellows found that out, they promptly 
challenged her to play a game with the winner, 
much to her fluttering delight. 

The sad-eyed lady was laughing now, and playing 
with the baby across the way, while the baby’s 
mother looked on and smiled happily. A very dif¬ 
ferent group, indeed, from what it had been three 
hours before. And when, in due time, the twins 
had climbed into their berths, the whole car echoed 
the sentiments of Carl: 

“Why, Carrie,” he sighed happily, “we haven’t 
been giving a Christmas to anybody. We’ve just 
been having a Christmas ourselves!” 


CHAPTER V 


T HE morning after Christmas, the train still re¬ 
mained motionless. The snow had ceased fall¬ 
ing the night before, showing a wonderful world of 
glistening whiteness, so dazzling that one could not 
look at it long. 

Time now, however, did not hang heavily on the 
twins’ hands. There were the new books to read, 
and there were the new friends with which to talk 
and play games. They played checkers with the 
two young men, and dominoes with the old lady. 
She was a jolly little old lady, and she did so like 
games! They played “telling stories” with the sad¬ 
eyed lady and pat-a-cake with the baby. They went 
into the car, too, where were the five “Christmas 
children,” as they called Mary, Tom, the twin girls 
and Edgar; and there they found many more de¬ 
lightful things to amuse them. 

Two things only worried Carl and Carrie. One 
was, that the luncheon box was getting so danger¬ 
ously low, and the other was, what would Aunt 
Harriet think when they did not come? 

“Of course we won’t really starve,” Carrie argued 
in a low voice over their luncheon that noon. “Not 
if we ever get started so that we can reach there 
before our money’s all gone. You see, our money 
won’t go so very far, when things cost so much in 
that car where they eat.” 

“No—especially if you’ve lost half of it,” retorted 
297 


298 Hustler Joe 

Carl bitterly, his cheeks flaming a shamed red. 
“Carrie, where do you suppose that money went?” 

Carrie shook her head. 

“I don’t know; but it’s gone, and we can’t help it 
now, so all we have to do is to make what we have 
left go as far as it will—both the food and the 
money. That’s why I—I thought I didn’t care for 
but one sandwich this noon,” she finished, trying to 
look unconcerned. 

“Oh,” said Carl, eyeing the sandwich in his hand a 
little ruefully. “Oh, well, I reckon I don’t, either,” 
he finished, hastily dropping the sandwich back into 
the box. 

Carrie looked distressed. 

“Of course, Carl, if—if you’re hungry”—she began 
hesitatingly. 

Carl lifted his chin and looked straight into his 
sister’s eyes. “I reckon I’m not any more hungry 
than you are,” he said very decisively, and with 
meaning emphasis. 

Carrie laughed and colored a little. 

“Never mind, Carl; when we arrive in Boston I 
expect Aunt Harriet’ll give us just heaps to eat—if 
we ever do get started!” 

It was not long after this that the red-faced man 
come into the car with a beaming smile. 

“Well,” he announced joyfully, “they’ve dug us 
out at last! We’ll be under way now in no time.” 

True to this prediction, the train did start very 
soon; and with a wild whoop of joy Carl hailed the 
first turn of the wheels. The rest of the afternoon 
the twins sat entranced, watching the swiftly chang¬ 
ing landscape. Then, when the early winter dark¬ 
ness hid everything from sight, they turned with a 
hungry sigh to their luncheon box. Yet it was with 


The Twins 5 Journey 299 

almost as hungry a sigh that they turned away from 
it a little later, after a very “saving meal,” as Carrie 
called it. 

Breakfast the next morning was even a more sav¬ 
ing meal. The luncheon box was very low now. 

“And you see, it’s only Thursday,” said Carrie a 
little soberly, as she peered into the box. “We were 
going to get there Friday; but they say now it’ll be 
Saturday. And that leaves us all of today and to¬ 
morrow and part of Saturday that we shall have to 
eat.” 

“ ‘All of today and tomorrow and part of Satur¬ 
day that we shall have to eat/ ” echoed Carl, with a 
feeble laugh. “I don’t know whether ‘today and 
tomorrow and next day’ will be good eating or not; 
but I s’pose we mustn’t be too particular, as that’s 
about all we shall have to eat!” 

Carrie laughed at his joke—but her laugh, too, 
was a little faint. Like Carl, she was hungry. 

“Well, anyway, you know what I mean,” she 
sighed. “We’ve only this little bit in the box, and 
the two dollars, and we must make it last somehow, 
till we get to Aunt Harriet’s, Saturday.” 

“Hm-m, I know,” frowned Carl. “And they said it 
cost a whole dollar just for one to eat once in the car 
where the tables are. Say, Carrie, I wish I hadn’t 
lost that money!” 

Carrie did not answer. Her eyes were out of the 
window, yet she did not seem to see what she was 
looking at. Suddenly she turned with a triumphant 
little cry. 

“Carl, I’ll tell you,” she whispered. “Let’s play it 
is a game, and we’re lost in a desert. Then we’ll 
have to divide our rations; see?” 

“Y-yes,” assented Carl, but without much enthu- 


Hustler Joe 


300 

siasm, his hungry eyes on the food still left in the 
bottom of the big box. 

“Now here are six sandwiches, five cookies, two 
pickles, three pieces of cold meat, one piece of pie 
and two doughnuts,” cried Carrie, beginning to ap¬ 
pear very cheerful indeed. Of course one was cheer¬ 
ful when one was playing a game! That there 
might be no mistake about her being cheerful, Carrie 
was talking aloud now, in a clear, high-pitched voice. 
“Now, here are just nineteen pieces of food,” she 
went on, “and there are two more meals today, and 
three tomorrow. That’ll be five.” 

“But there’s Saturday, the last day,” interposed 
Carl. 

“Yes, I know. I’ve saved the money for that. 
There’ll be two meals if we don’t get to Boston till 
afternoon, but we can’t have both, of course, on just 
two dollars. We’ll each eat one, and eat all we 
can; then maybe it won’t be so very hard to wait 
till we get to Aunt Harriet’s.” 

“Humph!” grunted Carl. 

“But, Carl, listen! We must divide our rations 
now for those two days; don’t you see? Now here 
are nineteen things, and five meals to eat them in. 
Dear, dear,” she frowned, “why couldn’t there have 
been twenty things? Five would go into twenty 
easy; but nineteen-” 

“Pooh! Make it twenty, then,” retorted Carl. 
And with careful precision he cut the one piece of 
pie into two. “There! There you are!” 

“Oh, that’ll be easy now,” cried Carrie. “See? 
Five goes into twenty, four times. So we can have 
four things for each meal, and that means two 
apiece. Now, choose Carl. Pick your two things 


The Twins’ Journey 301 

for the first meal—that’s this noon—dinner, you 
know.” 

After some deliberation Carl chose one sandwich 
and one piece of pie. It was not so easy, however, 
to lay them one side, as he was told to do. After 
Carrie chose her sandwich and cooky, he had his 
supper to select. It was not any easier to lay that 
to one side. To tell the truth, Carl, at that moment, 
had a decided inclination to eat both his dinner and 
his supper, to say nothing of a possible nibble at the 
breakfast intended for the next morning. 

So absorbed were the twins sorting out the con¬ 
tents of their luncheon box that they did not notice 
the red-faced man across the aisle. But the red¬ 
faced man was very plainly noticing them. Again 
he had forgotten, for a long time, to turn a page of 
his magazine. Over its top his eyes were furtively 
watching the children. 

An hour passed. The luncheon box was put away 
now, each day’s rations carefully sorted and sepa¬ 
rated by bits of paper. The twins were looking out 
of the window. There was a good deal to be seen 
today, yet the two did not seem to be quite happy. 
There was a hungry look in their eyes, and a wistful 
droop to their mouths. 

Two hours passed. The red-faced man had long 
since gone back to reading his magazine, though 
once he did stop long enough to write a few care¬ 
fully formed words on the page he tore from his 
notebook. After putting the bit of paper away in 
his pocket, he went back to his reading. 

It was just as the twins reached for their luncheon 
box to eat their noonday meal that the red-faced man 
seemed to stir into sudden life. Jerkily he sprang 
to his feet. With somewhat of a flourish he took the 


302 Hustler Joe 

bit of paper from his pocket and presented it to 
Carrie. 

“For you and your brother/' he said, bowing very 
low. And wonderingly Carrie read aloud: 

“Mr. George Egbert Howe presents his compli¬ 
ments and would be pleased to have Miss Carrie and 
Master Carl take luncheon with him Thursday, De¬ 
cember 27, at 12:30 o'clock." 

“Why, what"—began Carrie in a puzzled voice. 

“Why, say, to-day’s Thursday!" interposed Carl, 

moistening his lips. “You don’t mean that you-" 

He stopped, his face falling a little. “Who—who is 
this Mr. George Egbert Howe?" he asked then, a 
little fearfully. 

The red-faced man laid his hand on his heart with 
mock ceremony. 

“At your service," he bowed again. “I am Mr. 
George Egbert Howe." 

“And you mean—you want us to—to eat with 
you this noon?" asked Carrie. 

“If you'll be so kind." 

“Kind!" exploded Carl delightedly. Then he 
turned to his sister. “Oh, I say, Carrie, won’t that 
be jolly? That'll leave all our dinner to go with 
our supper tonight!" 

Carrie blushed scarlet. She had tried desperately 
to stop the rush of words on Carl's lips; but in vain. 
She turned hurriedly to Mr. Howe. She hoped that 
if she spoke soon enough he might not pay much 
attention to what Carl had said. 

“Oh, thank you, thank you, sir," she cried. “I'm 
sure we’d just love to eat with you, and we think 
you're splendid to ask us." 

“Er, yes," cut in Carl hastily; “er—yes, indeed!" 

Thus it happened that the twins found themselves, 


The Twins’ Journey 303 

a few minutes later, at one of those fascinating little 
white tables in the “car where they ate.” 

“My, but isn’t this jolly?” gurgled Carl between 
mouthfuls, trying to remember his manners and not 
to eat too fast. 

“Oh, isn’t it?” breathed Carrie. “And how good 
everything does taste!” 

“Bless me, bless me,” mumbled their host under 
his breath. And something very like moisture ap¬ 
peared for a moment in his eyes. 

“Now just suppose you tell me a little about your¬ 
selves,” he suggested, after a time, when he thought 
his guests’ first hunger was appeased, so that they 
might be able to talk a little. “First, where are you 
going, and how do you happen to be going there all 
by yourselves?” 

“Well, you see,” began Carl, and then, with 
Carrie’s help, he told something of their past home, 
their life there and how a whole dear town had 
turned out to get them started off East to school. 

“Hm-m!” commented Mr. Howe when the story 
was done. “And so now you’re going to Aunt Har¬ 
riet’s to live?” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“Do you know her?” 

“Oh, no, sir.” 

“Never saw her, then?” 

The twins shook their heads. 

“Hm; well, you must be anxious to see her.” 

“We are, very,” declared Carrie. “And we hope 
we’ll like her, and that—that she’ll like us.” 

“Oh, I think she will.” And Mr. Howe beamed 
pleasantly. 

“Oh, but folks don’t, you know, at first—some¬ 
times,” spoke up Carl hurriedly, as usual without 


Hustler Joe 


304 

thinking what he was saying. “There was you, you 
know. Don’t you remember how cross—oh-h!” 
Even Carl stopped this time, with a quick hand to 
his mouth. 

“Carl!” gasped Carrie in a shocked voice; but the 
red-faced man only laughed. 

“Never mind, my boy, I deserve all you’re giving 
me,” he declared. 

“Oh, but sir, when you’ve been so good to us,” 
stammered Carrie, her face a painful red. 

“Nonsense! I’m good to myself. I was lone¬ 
some. I wanted you to take luncheon with me for 
company. I like to hear you talk. Now tell me 
more about this Aunt Harriet.” 

“We don’t know much more,” returned Carl; “and, 
say, we are worried, sir,” he went on anxiously. 
“What’ll she think when we don’t come? You know 
we were snowed up so long!” 

“Well, she knew you were coming, didn’t she?” 

“Oh, yes, sir. They wrote her just the day and 
the train we started on.” 

“Oh, well, then, she’ll find out about the block, 
never fear; and she’ll know we won’t reach Chicago 
till to-morrow, then she’ll figure up when we’re likely 
to get to Boston, and she’ll ask just where and when 
the train comes in, and all; and be on hand to meet 
you. Never fear.” 

“We—we change at Chicago, don’t we?” asked 
Carrie timidly. 

“Yes. But I’m going to Boston, too, and I’ll see 
that you don’t have to worry about anything at 
Chicago. We’ll just keep together; see?” 

“Oh, thank you, sir,” breathed Carrie, in visible 
relief. “We were worried, you see,” she admitted, 
as she rose from the table. “And thank you, too, for 


The Twins’ Journey 305 

—for—all this. I think it was the very nicest meal 
we ever, ever ate!” 

“Yes, sir; oh, yes, sir, it was,” echoed Carl fer¬ 
vently. 

As Carl had prophesied, the twins did eat their 
dinner and supper in one that evening, from the 
luncheon box, though, to tell the truth, they were 
not very hungry, after all, so bountiful had been 
their noonday meal with Mr. Howe. 

The next day a second invitation for luncheon 
came from Mr. Howe, and the meal proved to be as 
delightful as the one the day before. They were 
good friends with Mr. Howe by that time. All 
the afternoon before, and all that morning, he had 
been over in their seat, telling them all about the 
wonderful things flying past the windows. 

To the twins the whole day was wonderful—quite 
the most wonderful of the trip that far, they told 
each other when night came. The change at Chi¬ 
cago, under Mr. Howe’s and the conductor’s kind 
care, had been nothing but a delight. Quite the 
most wonderful thing of all, however, as the twins 
looked at it, was something that had happened that 
morning before they reached Chicago. And this is 
what it was: 

Very soon after breakfast Carrie had said low in 
Carl’s ear: “Carl, I’m going to give that good, kind 
Mr. Porter one of my dollars.” 

“Why, Carrie Abbot! What for?” Carl had 
answered. 

“I’ve been talking to him just now, and yesterday, 
too; and he told me all about his little girl that is ill 
and that she needs medicine and a doctor.” 

“But, Carrie, a whole dollar! And you know I 
—I lost mine!” 


Hustler Joe 


306 

“I know, but it doesn't matter now. We'll be 
there so soon—to Aunt Harriet's. We ate with Mr. 
Howe yesterday, and he says we’re going to today, 
and again tomorrow ‘for the final spread’—he called 
it—so our luncheon box will last for the rest, and 
we won't need the money, Carl; and that little girl 
does. I'm going to give it to him now. He's down 
by the door." And before Carl could speak she was 
away. But very soon she was back again. Her 
face wore a puzzled frown. 

“Carl, he wouldn't take it." 

“Why not?" 

“I don’t know." 

“But Mr. Smith gave him money; I saw him." 

“I know it," nodded Carrie; “and he seemed to 
like it then. But today he—looked awfully funny, 
Carl." 

“How? What do you mean?" 

“Why, first he looked frightened, then sort of 
ashamed, someway; then he was real queer looking, 
you know, almost as if he was going to cry. And he 
stammered and talked so fast I couldn’t understand 
half he said, only he wouldn't take the money." 

“Was he angry?" 

“Oh, no! Not a bit like that. He thanked me 
over and over again, and said how good and kind I 
was, and how he should always remember it to his 
dying day; but he pushed the money away as if he 
was actually afraid of it." 

“Why, how queer!" murmured Carl. 

It was a little later that the porter came up to 
Carl and held out a small, leather purse. 

“Is that yours, sah?" he asked, showing all his 
teeth in a smile, but holding out the purse in a hand 
that shook a little. 


The Twins’ Journey 307 

“Well, I should say it was!” cried Carl joyfully. 
“That's my purse that I lost. It has my two dollars 
in it; see?” he added, snapping open the clasp. 
“Why, where did you find it?” 

“In the berth—up there,” replied the porter hur¬ 
riedly. “I s’pects maybe you lost it in the clothes, 
and it fell down. Yes, sah; all right, sah,” he fin¬ 
ished, backing away; nor would he stay a minute 
longer to hear Carl and Carrie’s eager thanks. 

It was Carl who, a short time afterwards, turned 
to Carrie with troubled eyes. 

“Carrie, you don’t suppose,” he began, then 
stopped. “Carrie, I missed that purse Tuesday 
morning, and this is Friday morning. Why didn’t 
he bring it to me before, if he found it? You don’t 

suppose he-” The boy stopped again, a look of 

distress coming to his face. 

Carrie flushed. She, too, looked distressed. 

“Carl Abbott, don’t you think of such a thing for 
a minute. Of course he didn’t mean to keep it! If 
he found it before, he didn’t know whose it was, I’m 
sure. And if he didn’t know, he wanted it, of course, 
for that poor little girl of his who is ill.” 

“I know,” nodded Carl, still with the troubled look 
on his face; “but, you see, he wouldn’t take the 
money you offered him, and maybe ’twas because of 
this, and he was ashamed to. And then maybe ’twas 
because you were so kind to him that he felt badly, 
and brought it back to me.” 

“I don’t believe it,” declared Carrie stoutly. “He’s 
a poor man, and he has that sick little girl, and he 
needs some money. I’m going to ask Mr. Howe to 
take up a collection from all the people before we 
get to Chicago, and give it to him for the little girl. 
I am!” 



Hustler Joe 


308 

Carrie did tell Mr. Howe, and Mr. Howe did take 
up the collection before they reached Chicago. 

“And Mr. Porter just cried w r hen I gave it to him,” 
said Carrie to Carl afterwards. “And I just know 
he’s good and honest. Anyway, if he wasn’t before, 
he will be now,” she finished emphatically; which, 
was, as it happened, exactly the truth of the matter 
—though Carrie did not quite know how truly she 
spoke. 


CHAPTER VI 


S the train drew near to Boston, Saturday after- 



4* noon, the twins began to be nervous, and a little 
frightened. Home and old friends seemed to be a 
long, long way from them now, and Aunt Harriet 
seemed very new and untried. Even the friends 
they had made in the car were so busy with their 
own preparations for arrival, that they could pay 
little attention to anything else; and the twins 
found themselves left pretty much alone. 

“I wish I could stay and see Aunt Harriet, young¬ 
sters/’ said Mr. Howe, as the train was pulling into 
the long train shed at Boston; “but I’m a day late 
as it is, and I have matters to attend to that can’t 
be kept waiting any longer. Now good-by, and be 
good; and here’s a little souvenir to remember 
me by,” he finished, as he dropped two bright five- 
dollar gold pieces into their hands. The next mo¬ 
ment he was gone, in spite of their delighted chorus 
of thanks. He was, indeed, the first passenger off 
the steps of the sleeping car. 

Very nervously, Carl picked up his suit case and 
led the way; yet he tried to appear confident and 
cheerful, as befitted the “man of the family.” 

“Come on, Carrie, here we are at last! Never 
mind the luncheon box. Leave it. It’s empty. 
Aunt Harriet won’t want that.” 

Through the car and down the steps the two chil¬ 
dren hurried, Carl tugging the suit case, Carrie close 
at his heels. Only the conductor nodded good-by to 
them. 


309 


Hustler Joe 


310 

“Let’s see; I believe your aunt meets you here, 
doesn’t she?” asked the conductor, as he helped 
them down. 

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” nodded Carl, trying 
to look as if he had been to Boston a dozen times 
before. 

“All right! Good-by,” called the conductor. 

Nobody else noticed them at all. Some of their 
new friends had said good-by at Chicago ; the others 
knew that their aunt Harriet was to meet them, so 
nobody felt that they needed attention. All were 
busy and excited, too, meeting friends of their own. 

At the end of the first half-dozen steps Carl paused 
doubtfully. 

“I s’pose we’d better go with the rest,” he said to 
Carrie, his eyes questioning. “I s’pose Boston is 
down that way.” 

A blue-coated man near them, who had heard the 
words, chuckled a little. 

“I think ’tis, young man. Look a-here, don’t you 
know where you are? Isn’t there anybody to meet 
you?” 

“Oh, yes, sir; Aunt Harriet,” answered Carl 
quickly. “She lives in Boston, you know.” 

“Well, I didn’t know—but I do now,” smiled the 
man. “She knows you’re coming, I suppose.” 

“Oh, yes, sir.” 

“Well, you just keep right on going with the crowd, 
and you’ll see her. Keep straight ahead.” 

“All right; thank you, sir,” returned Carl, as, with 
a fresh hold on the suit case, he led the way down the 
long, narrow passage between the cars. 

“I wonder what she does look like,” panted Carrie. 

“Don’t know. But she knows what we look like, 
all right, so we don’t have to worry for fear she 


The Twins’ Journey 311 

won’t find us. Mrs. Golding told her all about us in 
the letter, you know. She said she did.” 

“Well, anyhow, I hope she’ll be big and round, 
with a shoulder all comfy to—to cry on,” faltered 
Carrie. 

Carl did not answer. He was looking about him 
a little anxiously. They had almost reached the 
end of the train now, and he could see the wide ex¬ 
panse of platform beyond the gates. He was won¬ 
dering which way he should turn when he reached 
there. 

“Say, I—I wish Aunt Harriet would come,” he 
murmured. 

Beyond the gates the twins stopped and looked 
about them. Everywhere were men, women and 
children; but most of them seemed to know exactly 
where they were going. A few, to be sure, stood 
about as if looking for some one, and these—espe¬ 
cially the women—Carl eyed very hopefully. Some 
one of them, somewhere, must be Aunt Harriet, he 
was sure. But nobody spoke to them; nobody 
seemed to notice them at all; and, after a time, the 
twins began to walk back and forth uneasily. 

Suddenly Carl gave an exclamation. 

“Say, Carrie, there’s a great big room with seats 
in it, and ’most everybody seems to be going in. 
There are heaps of folks in there, too. See? Right 
through those glass doors. Let’s go in. Perhaps 
Aunt Harriet’ll be there. She wouldn’t want to 
stand up all the time she was waiting for us, of 
course.” 

It was, indeed, a “great, big room,” and it had 
many seats in it. There were many people there, 
too; so many, many people that the twins stopped 


312 Hustler Joe 

with a gasp of dismayed wonder just inside the 
door. 

“Whew! Just look at them!” breathed Carl. 
“There must be a show or something here today!” 

Carrie did not answer. She had caught Carl's 
coat sleeve in her hand and was clinging fast hold of 
it. After a minute Carl spoke again. 

“Say, Carrie, there's just one thing we’ll have to 
do. Aunt Harriet will never find us if we stand 
here by the door. She’s sitting in one of those seats, 
of course, but where we don’t know. Now we’ve got 
to walk slowly by every one of them; then she’ll see 
us and stop us.” 

“Why, yes, of course,” answered Carrie with some¬ 
thing a little more like courage in her voice. But 
she still kept tight hold of that coat sleeve. 

Up and down, in and out, by every seat the twins 
walked, peering into every woman’s face, and stop¬ 
ping hopefully several times. But nobody spoke, 
and nobody seemed to notice them particularly. At 
last, tired and thoroughly frightened, the twins 
dropped into the last two seats and set the suit case 
down in front of them. 

“I reckon we’ll have to wait till she finds us,” 
stammered Carl then, winking very fast, and swal¬ 
lowing very hard between some of the winks. “May¬ 
be she’ll find us better, anyhow, if we sit still,” he 
finished bravely. 

Carrie began to cry softly, though she, too, tried to 
force the tears back. 

“But, Carl, look at the clock! We’ve been here 
more than an hour. What if Aunt Harriet never 
comes? What if she never finds us?” 

At that moment a very pleasant-faced lady not 
far away got up hastily and came toward them. 


The Twins’ Journey 313 

“What is the matter, my dear?” she said kindly to 
Carrie. “I’ve been watching you for some time. 
You seem troubled about something.” 

Both the children turned joyfully. 

“Oh!” cried Carl. “Aren’t you—aren’t you Aunt 
Harriet?” 

“Please, please be Aunt Harriet,” begged Carrie, 
her voice breaking in a sob. 

The lady smiled—but she looked very sorry, too. 

“It’s too bad, my dears, but I’m afraid I’m not 
Aunt Harriet,” she answered gently; “but perhaps 
I can help you in some way. You were looking for 
Aunt Harriet?” 

“Yes, and she’s looking for us,” answered Carl. 

“She was going to meet us,” explained Carrie. 

“Then she expected you?” asked the lady. 

“Oh, yes; but we were snowed up. and arrived here 
today instead of yesterday, so maybe she didn’t know 
just when to meet us,” spoke up Carl. 

The lady frowned and bit her lip. 

“And you don’t know—where she lives?” she 
asked. 

“Oh, yes, we know that,” answered Carl proudly. 
“I didn’t lose this,” he added with a triumphant 
glance at Carrie, as he carefully pulled out a slip of 
paper from his pocket, bearing a name and an 
address. 

“ 'Mrs. Harriet Blake/ ” read the lady aloud, her 
face clearing. “And there’s the street and the num¬ 
ber, too. Oh, you’ll be all right now. We’ll have 
you there very soon. I’d go with you myself, but I 
can’t do that, for I must take a certain train, and I 
haven’t time before it goes. But wait right here, 
please, till I come back. I’ll fix it for you—but 


314 Hustler Joe 

don’t go away from this seat,” she cautioned the 
children earnestly as she hurried away. 

“Just as if we would!” choked Carrie. “Why, I’d 
stay all night if she told me to.” 

“Yes, if she said she’d come back,” amended Carl 
practically. 

In a very short time the lady did come back. 
With her was a tall, blue-coated man wearing a hat 
that Carrie thought looked like a bell that was not 
quite round. 

“There, my dears,” announced the lady pleas¬ 
antly; “this kind man is Mr. Murphy, and he will 
go with you himself to your Aunt Harriet’s house, 
and he w T on’t leave you till you are in Aunt Harriet’s 
arms. Now, good-by. You’d better hurry, for Aunt 
Harriet will be worried.” 

They did hurry; they hurried, indeed, a little too 
fast for Carl’s wishes. Much as he wanted to find 
Aunt Harriet, he wanted, also, to see something of all 
the wonderful things about him; for Carl was not 
used to a great city’s streets, full of cars, carriages, 
automobiles and hurrying throngs of people. 

Carrie, however, was thinking more of Aunt Har¬ 
riet, interested as she was in the wonders all about 
her. And it was Carrie who gave the dismayed cry 
at the answer of the woman who came to the door in 
reply to Mr. Murphy’s ring of the bell. 

“Is Mrs. Harriet Blake in?” Mr. Murphy had 
asked; and the woman had answered: 

“There isn’t anybody by that name here, sir. My 
name is Hendricks.” 

“But it—it’s on the paper,” sobbed Carrie. “The 
paper says she lives here; doesn’t it, Mr. Murphy?” 

Mr. Murphy himself was looking at the paper with 
frowning eyes. 


The Twins’ Journey 315’ 

“This is number 231?” he asked. 

“Yes, sir; but there isn’t any Blake here,” an¬ 
swered the woman with decision. 

Suddenly, from an inner room, appeared a man. 

“Were you looking for Blake—Mrs. Blake?” he 
asked. 

“Yes, oh, yes—Aunt Harriet,” cried both Carl and 
Carrie, before the officer could reply. 

“Well, she isn’t here. She did live here once, 
though; but she moved away three or four years 
ago.” 

“Where did she move to?” asked Mr. Murphy, 
hurriedly taking a pencil from his pocket. 

“I don’t know. This house was empty when we 
took it; but I know that people by the name of Blake 
had lived in it.” 

“But isn’t there anybody in the house who 
knows?” 

“I’m afraid not. You see, my wife and I are the 
only ones here, anyhow. I do know she didn’t move 
anywhere in Boston, though,” he added, “so I’m 
afraid the directory wouldn’t help you. They went 
to one of the suburbs. The agent who rented me 
the house told me that.” 

“Where is that agent?” Mr. Murphy’s voice again 
was hopeful. 

The other man shook his head. 

“Gone West a year ago.” 

The officer bit his lip and sighed. 

“Of course I might try the telephone directory,” 
he said, “but we don’t know her husband’s name, 
you see.” 

The woman in the doorway smiled a little. 

“You couldn’t very well call up two or three 


Hustler Joe 


316 

columns of Blakes and ask if the wife’s name was 
‘Harriet/ could you?” she said. 

The officer shook his head. He was too disturbed 
to smile at her little joke. 

“Well, thank you,” he sighed, as he turned away. 
“We’ll ask two or three of the neighbors here, and 
if they don’t know, we’ll have to try the next best 
thing,” he finished, as he led the way down the steps 
to the sidewalk. 

The street was a short cross street between two 
wide avenues, and there were few people on it to-day. 
The houses loomed tall and solemn, and all alike on 
either side. At the door of several of these Mr. 
Murphy inquired for news of Mrs. Blake’s where¬ 
abouts; but in vain. Then, with a shake of his head, 
he turned to leave the street. 

“But what can we do?” faltered Carrie, looking 
about her with fearful eyes. 

The officer smiled cheerily. “Don’t worry. It’ll 
all come right in the end. First, we’ll have your 
pictures taken; then we’ll try to get you on the 
front page of all the Boston papers so that Aunt 
Harriet can see you, and come and get you. Of 
course-” He stopped suddenly. Both the chil¬ 

dren, with a wild cry of joy, had flung themselves 
upon a red-faced man who had just turned the 
corner of the street. 

“Well, well; bless me, bless me!” cried the red¬ 
faced man. “If here aren’t my two little friends 
from the West!” 

“Then you know them, sir?” asked the officer, 
visibly relieved. 

“Mr. Howe, Mr. Howe,” panted Carl, before the 
man could answer, “Aunt Harriet has moved away. 



The Twins 5 Journey 317 

What shall we do? There isn’t any Mrs. Blake that 
lives on this street at number 231!” 

“Eh? What? Blake?” exploded Mr. Howe. 
“Why didn’t you tell me your aunt Harriet’s name 
was Blake, and that she lived on this street?” 

“Then do you know Mrs. Blake?” cut in the 
officer. 

“Know her? I should say I do. Lived here on 
the same street with her for years. She’s a great 
friend of my wife’s, too. Bless me, bless me! And 
is she your Aunt Harriet? Well, well, this is a small 
world, after all.” 

“And where does she live now, sir?” asked Mr. 
Murphy, a broad smile on his face. 

“Cambridge. Come, come; I’ll have you there in 
no time. My motor car is waiting just around the 
corner. Bless me,” he cried again, an arm flung 
around each twin. “And so Harriet Blake is your 
Aunt Harriet ? And she’ll be glad to have you, too. 
She lost a boy last winter, and a girl the year before. 
She’s been ill herself for years. That’s probably why 
she hasn’t sent for you before. But she’s better 
now. She’ll be glad to see you; never fear!” 

“Then why didn’t she—meet us?” quavered 
Carrie. “It seems queer that she didn’t come or 
send someone. We were so frightened when we 
could not find her.” 

Mr. Howe frowned. 

“Don’t know; but there’s some good reason, I’ll 
warrant. Some mistake, somewhere. She wouldn’t 
have left you that way; indeed she wouldn’t! Now 
come quickly; and you, too, Mr. Officer, so you can 
see that they reach Aunt Harriet all right,” he 
finished jovially. 

Not an hour later the twins, one on each side of 


Hustler Joe 


318 

a smiling-faced, teary-eyed woman, looked across at 
each other joyously. The first excitement of the 
meeting was over. Explanations about the letter 
that had never been received had all been made. 
It was then that Carl drew a long breath. 

“Say, Carrie,” he called a little mischievously, 
“she’s little, and I just know that she’s lively and 
jolly, too!” 

Carrie smiled mistily. 

“Well, anyhow,” she called back, “I know she’s 
got a lovely shoulder to cry on—’cause I’ve tried it!” 

Then both of them laughed and gave Aunt Harriet 
a bearlike hug. 
















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